


Moonshine

by mudkipwrites, sempaiko



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Art by Sempaiko, Complicated Relationships, Corruption, Cowboys & Cowgirls & Cowpokes, Crew as Family, Developing Relationship, Eventual Relationships, Financial Issues, Historical Trauma, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 61,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sempaiko/pseuds/sempaiko
Summary: IRS Agent Kallus is an unwelcome guest at the Ghost Town ranch. However, he soon finds himself growing fond of the unusual Spectres, and finds himself with conflicted feelings about his intended task. Particularly, when it comes down to feelings about the burly ranch-hand, Garazeb Orrelios. Things start changing between them after getting stranded one night with a batch of Zeb’s homemade moonshine...
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 460
Kudos: 250





	1. Art by Sempaiko: Cowboy Hat

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a project for #Yeehauwgust. I really hope you enjoy this AU! I don't have a regular schedule for publication, but I'm hoping for a nice, long story told from several different characters' perspectives. Shout out to my fellow Kalluzeb fans, especially the dear, sweet @Sempaiko, who created some truly HOT cowboy artwork to go with this story, as well as the lovely and talented @HixySticks, who writes Kalluzeb like most people breathe air. You two just rock!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Here: yer gonna need this hat more than me, city boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "COWBOYS." Make sure to check out Sempaiko's other artwork at her [Tumblr](https://sempaiko.tumblr.com)! She gave me the okay to post this here. Please remember to always check with artists for permission before posting their artwork anywhere. Thank you!


	2. Garazeb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeb isn't pleased when IRS Agent Kallus shows up unexpected.

* * *

**_GARAZEB_ **

* * *

Across the distance of swaying prairie, beneath the expanse of open, blue sky, a cloud of dust rises from the dirt road. 

The chrome-colored roadster looks every bit out of place in the rugged, wilderness landscape of the Badlands. For one thing, it’s going far too fast for these unpaved, gravel roads: brownish-grey rocks spit out from the spinning wheels, clattering loudly against the ( _expensive)_ paint job on its sides. For another, it’s far too _loud_ for anything that belongs around here: amidst the whisper of wind through the dried, waist-high, golden-brown grass; the high-pitched, breathless scream of a red-tailed hawk as it snatches its prey; the soft, snorting grunts and exhales of the cattle, bumping their whiskery noses into his hand. 

From where he is standing upon the shade of the porch, wiping sweat off his brow and swallowing from a pitcher of ice water, Garazeb Orrelios narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What kinda asshole drives a Lamborghini around _here?”_ he muses aloud with disdain. 

His younger sister, Sabine, is working on cleaning the track of her boot. She digs at it with the sharp, obsidian blade of her pocket knife, chipping away at the hardened clod of dirt. When it springs clean, she smiles in satisfaction. “What kind of asshole drives a Lamborghini to begin with _?”_ She quips. “The kind of person who's got money to wipe with, Zeb.” 

Zeb grunts in agreement. He loops his calloused thumbs through the holes of his belt, tapping a rhythm with one fingertip.

“Don’t feel right,” he states, watching the obnoxiously flashy car work its way around the winding path of the road. As it pulls around a corner, roaring and spitting rocks, a cluster of startled prairie chickens take flight. “Don’t _do_ right, either,” he adds, voice darkening into a growl, as the roadster turns onto their private drive. It begins up the long, rugged approach, kicking up even more dust than before. “Karabast, ‘Bine; I think that he's actually comin’ this way.”

The young woman sitting next to him laughs at the annoyance clear in his voice. 

She rises, flipping the treasured knife in her hand, catching it deftly between slim, black-painted fingers. “Guess that’s _his_ problem, then," she replies, winking at her older brother. “Poor bastard has no idea what kind of trouble he's getting himself into." She places a knee on the chair, tucking her knife into a boot. "Want me to go and alert the others?" 

"S'pose that ya better," Zeb replies, smiling at her. "Yeah. I saw Ezra headed down towards the barn. Think he's there with Kanan." 

"I'm on it!" the young woman replies. With the ease of a seasoned ranch-hand, she vaults herself over the wooden railing. Landing in the brush of the tall prairie grass, she takes off at a stride for their pair of waiting horses. Her mustang, a handsome and unruly Paint named Mando, paws eagerly as she approaches. He's fitted with a set of black leathers that she'd made and painted herself, and he snorts with with anticipation as she rises up and into the saddle. 

Zeb waves her off, feeling his heart swell with pride for his little sister. She's grown so much, in the decade since joining him at the _Ghost Town_ ranch.

"Right," he sighs, standing up from his own wooden rocking-chair. "Better get myself ready, too. Don't wanna be caught with my fly down..." With a calm, casual motion, he reaches out for his beloved weapon--a Model 1873 Carbine rifle--where it rests in the shaded corner of the porch.The old, polished walnut of the stock is wrapped with bands of criss-crossed fabric, and when it rests within his hands, fit of it feels snug and familiar.

"Hullo, beautiful," he croons to the rifle like an old friend. 

Garazeb Orrelios is not a warrior. Not anymore. There had been a time, of course, when he’d run around on the regular with all the wrong sort, serving as the muscle and providing backup. But these days, however, he’s trying his best to go about doing things _right._ Right, as in doing right by Kanan Jarrus: the man who'd so graciously taken him on as a hired hand, even in spite of his criminal record, and who had become one of his closest friends. Right, as in doing right by his fellow _Spectres:_ the other ranch-hands, who he'd lived and worked with long enough to think of as family. These days, Zeb seldom has to use his treasured weapon; but that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t. Not if it meant protecting those on the ranch. 

"Ain't _nobody_ gettin' between me and mine," Garazeb growls, swinging the strap of the rifle over his back. "Like to see 'em _try."_

Thumb-sized grasshoppers fling themselves out of his way and rocks crunch quietly beneath his boots as Garazeb steps down from the porch. Slowly, confidently _,_ he makes his way down the drive towards the incoming vehicle. As he’d suspected, that insolent purr is a regular roar _:_ as the engine draws closer, it escalates in volume until it is nearly deafening. Zeb's brow wrinkles, and he feels his mouth pulling into a frown. 

With a churning of sleek, black tires on gravel, the glittering roadster grinds to a halt.

The door clicks open, and Zeb cannot help but to roll his eyes when the sight of a pristine, Italian leather brogue emerges from the driver’s side of the roadster. He can see right away that the man who follows is just as pretentious and handsome: the sandy-blonde bangs showing from beneath his hat are combed back into a crisp, golden line; his plush-lipped, square-jawed face is flawless, and looks as though it has been cut out from a magazine; and he is _tall_. Taller than most of the people Zeb usually encounters _(and yet, he is still Garazeb Orrelios; so, naturally he’s still taller.)_ Zeb doesn't like the look of him one bit. 

“Good afternoon, sir!” the too-pretty man calls from over the meters between them. “I hope that this day finds you well?"

Zeb feels his face twist into a grimace. He doesn’t like the posh, English accent that clings to each extravagant word. He doesn’t like the assumed familiarity that this stranger is so readily applying. He doesn’t like the veneer of politeness, when he’s just driven onto their private land; and he most certainly doesn’t like the way that this man practically reeks of money: from his car, to his shoes, to his too-pretty face. 

"What do you want?" he asks pointedly. Turning his head, Zeb spits in the grass. 

The intruder's eyes follow his motion. Garazeb watches the man and very nearly smiles at the comedic effect of his double-take. Starting with his eyes on Zeb's boots on the ground, and working their way up to his head, the stranger gives Zeb the most thorough look that he's seen this side of the _Bucking Bronco._ Baring his teeth, Zeb crosses his arms. He is aware that the action is intimidating, and that it accentuates every bit of his size and strength--making his open shirt pull snugly across his broad chest, tug tightly across the meat of his shoulders, wind around the thickness and cut of his biceps. Typically, it spooks away most opponents. This man, however, steps forward.

“Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” the stranger asks. He tips the brim of his white cowboy hat forward. “I haven’t seen cloud cover for miles.” When Zeb doesn't reach out to take it, he lets the invitation drop. Clearing his throat, he asks pleasantly: "Do I have the pleasure of speaking with one Mr. Caleb Dume?”

His words are spoken in a pleasant, polished tone, but the content of them hit Zeb like a slap. _Kanan’s past name?_ he thinks with silent alarm. He's grateful that he’d already trained his facial features into a stern, impassive mask, so that his expression does not reveal just how sharp of a threat speaking that name really is. _He shouldn’t be knowing that. Nobody should be knowing that._ Beneath his armpits, his fingers tighten into fists. 

“Nobody here by that name, partner,” Garazeb replies cooly. His eyes flick over the man. Everything from his three-piece suit to his ornate bolo-tie screams power and finances. _Gotta be from the government,_ he thinks to himself. _Probably, higher up in collections._

The city man raises one well-groomed eyebrow. “Really?” he asks silkily, setting down his briefcase. “Then perhaps I arrived at the wrong destination. Am I _not_ standing upon the premises of one ‘ _Ghost Town’_ ranch?” Zeb glares back at him. The way that this stranger makes his inquiry leads him to believe that he already has the answers. “A property on the north-western edge of the Badlands, purchased nearly two decades ago by one Kanan Jarrus--alias for Caleb Dune--currently supporting the raising of cattle, and also, currently under impending foreclosure?" 

Zeb's features drop into an ugly expression. _Fine then,_ he thinks. _Guess we'll do this the hard way._ Shrugging one shoulder, he pulls out his rifle. 

“N-now wait just a minute!” the other man says. Zeb cannot help but smirk at the slight stutter in that posh voice, as well as the way that the stranger brings his clipboard protectively over his chest. He isn't pointing the rifle at him, necessarily; it’s just that he's pointing it in his general direction. “No need to go drawing weapons, there, friend. I’m certain that our exchange can be civil.” 

Garazeb snorts with his disbelief. 

"M'not your _friend_ ," he replies dryly. "But, sure: let's do this your way." With his spare hand, he gestures around them. "Let’s say we start over. You can pretend that ya didn’t just try an' make me a threat, sayin’ somethin' that you shouldn’t rightly know about my boss. And me? I’ll pretend that you were invited here on our land...” Zeb narrows his eyes, “...so that I don’t have to shoot ya for trespassing without a warrant." 

He’d hoped that this exchange would make the other back man down. But instead, once again, he holds his ground. 

"Is that an official statement?" the stranger asks coldly. "Are you admitting that there are crimes happening here?" Even for his bravado, he doesn't exactly look comfortable facing down Garazeb: sweat rolls down his pretty face and drips from his neck, making that pale, freckled column skin look angry and flushed. With satisfaction, he sees the other man's tensed muscles flex and contract as he swallows.

 _Good,_ he thinks. _Fear, hopefully._

"M' _officially_ telling ya this: _back off_ ," Zeb replies steadily. "And that's about as good as it's gonna get, before I start firing this." The other man blanches. His eyes are fixed on the well-polished barrel of his trusty rifle, and Zeb knows that he has his full attention. "I’m Garazeb Orrelios, by the way. Or Zeb, if yer simple. I’m a ranch-hand here, and I've been workin' cattle for Kanan Jarrus nearly twenty years now." He makes to turn his head at the sound of approaching horses, but quickly looks back. He doesn't want to lose sight of this untrustworthy stranger for even a second. "Kanan's a good friend. Good man." 

Recovering somewhat, the stranger lifts his white hat and runs a hand through his sandy hair. It's _very_ pretty. 

"Alexsandr Kallus," he returns. "I'm an agent of the Internal Revenue Service. I’m here as a representative of the government, and as a servant of the public.” _Shit,_ Zeb thinks, glaring at him. _Of course he's from the government. But he's more...polished than the other crooks we usually get, trying to steal our land. What is he, some kind of lawyer?_ Agent Kallus must notice his searching look, because he offers: "I'm part of the CI Unit." 

Now _this_ makes more sense. Zeb feels his face pulling into a humorless grin. _“Ah!”_ he says with a short, bitter laugh. “So yer from the Criminal Investigation Unit, eh? So it’s like that _:_ yer here for a 'financial investigation.' Meanin' that yer gonna try and pin something dirty on our Kanan Jarrus, so that you can heap on more financial distress, and try again to steal away our land." The other man's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and Zeb bares his teeth. "Well: yer not gonna get away with it, _friend._ I know just what yer lot's about." 

Agent Kallus must feel quite exposed, because he looks positively flooded with rage and embarrassment. "I could have you arrested to speaking to me in such a manner!" he snaps, his manicured hands clenching into fists.

For the first time, his voice is no longer smooth and elegant, but rugged with threat. His broad shoulders square towards Zeb, as if preparing for a fist-fight. "I come here showing you nothing but respect, even with your sordid history of financial neglect, and not only do you harass me at gunpoint; but you also insult the integrity of my organization; and accuse your own government of corrupted, criminal behavior!"

His voice rises in pitch with every word. Smirking, Zeb lifts his rifle up to his shoulder. 

"You got it!" he replies cheerfully. "That's correct: I think that yer scum, and that yer gonna have to come back with a proper warrant if you want anything more to do with me an' my family. Now, I'm gonna give you ten seconds to turn tail and get back in that ridiculous car--" The sound of boots striding quickly towards him, and the anxious tones from the trio of spectres, makes him hustle on "--make that _five_ seconds," he amends, "before I start shootin.' Then, you only got yerself to blame for what comes next." Agent Kallus' nostrils flare. He looks completely outraged. And yet, he's reaching down for his briefcase. 

"What's going on here? Zeb?" rolls the deep, soothing voice of Kanan Jarrus. He sounds quite concerned. "Is there some kind of trouble?" 

Zeb shuffles the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, squeezing one eyelid shut so that his sites are set right on Kallus. "Not much, Spectre One," he returns lightly. He shuffles his feet into a wider posture, steadies himself with a breath. "This IRS cowboy got himself lost. New to the Badlands, an' all. So he was just poppin' by for a few directions; and now, he's leavin _."_ Zeb levels the gun at the other man's head. "Aren't ya, Agent Kallus?"

The IRS agent sneers. His golden eyes flash with violence, and his hands are white-knuckled upon his briefcase. 

"I don't know what else I expected, coming out here to a place like this," Agent Kallus replies. His voice has taken on that rich, accented pattern again, but now the corners of words are sharpened with anger. "Fine. If you are unwilling to play nice, don't expect me to either. I'll return within the week with a warrant; and you can bet that I will not leave the premise until I have found exactly what I'm looking for." 

Zeb huffs, eyes boring into Agent Kallus. If he wasn't holding the gun in his hands, he'd go right ahead and punch the too-pretty man right in his goddamn pretty _face_. "I'll hold ya to it," he growls.

Just then, he realizes the soothing feeling of Kanan Jarrus' gentle hand coming to rest on his arm. "Spectre Four," he murmurs, both calming and warning. "I think that we'd better go and talk this whole thing over inside." Garazeb makes a low, grunting noise like a growl in his throat, and Kanan adds, " _Without_ our guest here. He can go on his way." The tanned, sun-soaked hand squeezes his arm firmly, then releases. "Safe travels to you on your way, Agent Kallus." 

Behind him, Zeb can hear the tense breathing of Sabine and Ezra. To his right, he can feel the presence of his trusted friend. He sighs heavily. 

"Yeah, sure. Let's go," he replies, lowering the rifle. Allowing the flush of aggression to pound out from his veins with each slowing heartbeat, he searches for threads of lost conversation. "Gotta mention a few things 'bout the herd anyway...oh! do ya remember how last month Ol' Hondo Ohnaka said that our heifer was just fat, and not pregnant? Well, yer never gonna believe who's ready to calf--" 

"--criminals, cripples and _thieves."_

Agent Kallus' voice is just enough to carry from the distance between himself and the Spectres; and just enough for Garazeb Orrelios' temper to flare back to life, roaring like a wild prairie fiare. Shouldering Kanan off of his arm, he rises the gun once again, pointing it at the IRS agent's head. He ignores the shouted protests of all three other ranchers, hovering his finger over the trigger. 

"You say something, rat?" 

"I _said,"_ Kallus hisses, pushing his bangs out of his eyes, "You're a sorry bunch of criminal, cripples and thieves, and you're going to get exactly what you deserve!" 

"Thought that's what I heard." 

_\--BANG!!!--_

With the sound like the crackle of thunder, Garazeb Orrelios' hunting rifle roars to life in his hands. Kanan leaps back; Ezra screams; Sabine grabs her brother and dives for the dirt. As the swirl of dust settles and the smoke clears, Agent Kallus lies sprawled upon the road, golden eyes open wide and mouth hanging open--white cowboy hat shot right off his head. 

There is a large, burnt hole in the fabric, utterly wrecking it. 

" _LEAVE!"_ Zeb bellows. "Don't even think about trying to face me!" 

This time, Agent Kallus gets it. Scrambling up from the dirt, abandoning his cowboy hat, he sprints to the door of his glimmering car. Hands clattering over the door handle, he throws himself inside, shutting and locking the doors loudly. Within seconds, the impertinent engine is roaring to life, and he's shoving the car into gear, spinning out of the driveway with a rocky sputter of dust. 

Garazeb sighs, bringing his rifle to rest. He turns and smiles apologetically at Kanan--who, of course, cannot see anyway. "Sorry, Spectre One," he says, not feeling very sorry at all. "Sometimes, you just gotta rattle em." 

From where he is lying upon the ground, Ezra crunches over with laughter. He grabs a fistful of rocks and whoops, throwing them up into the air like confetti. Sabine smiles, too; she rises, dusting herself off, and punches her older brother in the shoulder. Only one of the Spectres does not look amused--and even he seems to be struggling to do that, a tell-tale smile twitching at the corners of his serious mouth. 

" _Garazeb Or-relios!"_ he intones, sounding so much like his on-and-off-again flame. "You have just made this situation that much more serious." 

The taller man shrugs. He walks over to where the wrecked cowboy hat is lying, stomping it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. It looks like it belongs there, crushed into the dirt, and he smiles with satisfaction. "Sorry, Kanan," he says, turning back to his family. "Worth it." Slinging an arm around either younger sibling, he turns towards their ranch-style home cloaked softly in shadow. "Guess we'll just have to deal with it when the time comes." 

* * *


	3. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a little bit more about the Spectres. Ezra hatches a plan.

* * *

**_EZRA_ **

* * *

Gathering every once of his will, Ezra Bridger once again focuses his attention. 

He can feel the prickly, close-shorn coat of the mare shifting restlessly beneath his fingers. He can smell the rich, earthy scent of her chestnut pelt, the warm, buttery smell of brushed leather. In his ears, he can hear every loud, irritable exhale and she snorts and paws at the ground; he can hear the rhythmic plink of water from the rusty spigot, the bellowing of a calf in the field--

“ _Focus,_ Ezra,” Kanan Jarrus interrupts warningly. “You’re letting your thoughts wander again.” 

Ezra grits his teeth. _I am focusing,_ he thinks with annoyance at his mentor _and it’s not like you’ve had any more luck than me!_ For the third time this week, Ezra and Kanan are out in the pasture attempting to gentle the mare. This kind of delay in training is unusual: typically, gifted with what his master calls ‘natural instincts,’ Ezra only needs a few hours to build trust with an animal. But Phoenix, however, is just as buck-wild as the day they’d bought her. And Kanan is _not_ making things easier, as he’s once again required Ezra to wear a blind-fold. 

“I am focused, Kanan,” he replies to his master with a forced calmness. “I’m paying attention.” 

The tension bleeding out through his voice disturbs the animal. She twitches beneath him, muscles flicking and muzzle snorting as though he’d shouted right into one of her tall, velveteen ears. Ezra sighs, giving Phoenix a soothing pat to the shoulder. 

“No,” Kanan disagrees in that infuriatingly soft voice of his. “You’re still holding on to all that anger. You’ve got to let go, Ezra: Release your emotions. Relax with your partner.”

Beneath his cowboy hat, Ezra furrows his brow. _Easy for you to say,_ he thinks waspishly, _when you’re not the one getting knocked on your ass every minute._ But rather than sniping back at his mentor, the dark-haired teenager sighs and settles back in. Once again, breathing deeply and diving deep within, he focuses his attention upon the many sensations. He can hear Phoenix breathing; he can feel her shifting musculature. Gradually, deprived of all sensations but visual, fully immersed in the experience, he begins to draw up the mental picture of the pair of them, standing together within the training circle. In his mind’s eye, Ezra can see the flick of the mare’s auburn tail; the tall, proud stance of her posture; the softness of his shoulders and looseness of hands upon reigns as he offers his trust to the powerful animal. 

“ _There_ you are,” Kanan smiles-- _smiles,_ Ezra knows without seeing, because he can hear it in the other man’s tone of voice. “Very good, Ez. Now: go ahead and provide some direction.” 

This moment is the real test. Forcing himself to breathe deeply and steadily, Ezra feigns an air of confidence and gives Phoenix a gentle tap with the heel of his boot. “C’mon, girl,” he tells the mare, firmly but kindly. And, typically, this is also the moment when Ezra is bucked unceremoniously off the back of the sorrel: landing in a swirling cloud of red dust, bruising his pelvis and tailbone for days. “Off we go, then.” 

For a second, it’s magical. 

To his surprise and relief, Ezra feels Phoenix shifting into motion beneath him. His spirits soar as the mare steps forward, following the gentle prod of his boot, and as her weight sways to accommodate the human sitting astride her back. He breaks out into a grin as one foot follows the other, and the horse begins to to move at a slow, deliberate trot forward. _Success!_

Then, that second is over. With a mighty heave, Phoenix begins to buck her displeasure. 

“ _Kanan!”_ Ezra scrambles to tear off the bandana over his eyes. Pulling the piece of dark-blue fabric free, he spirals his arms wildly in attempts to regain control. It’s little to no use: the furious animal is _far_ more powerful than he could ever be, even with the other ranch-hands combined.“Kanan, I think that-- _ach!_ \--I think we’re going back to square one!” 

Ezra looks over to his mentor. To his fury, he sees that Kanan Jarrus is _laughing._

The older man is leaning back against the rough, weathered posts of the fence with his thumbs tucked into the faded, brown leather strip of his belt. His sightless eyes crinkled at the corners in humor, and his mouth is pulled into a lop-sided grin. He doesn’t look concerned about his mentee in the slightest; in fact, he looks as though he’s enjoying the show. Booming laughter informs him that Zeb has joined in watching, too. 

“Don’ forget to fall like I taught ya!” Garazeb bellows. 

The thick-armed, barrel-chested cowboy is leaning both of his elbows against the fence, grinning like an idiot he chews some kind of reed. “Tuck in yer head! Chin to yer chest!” Ezra flashes him a scowl before kicking his boots from the stirrups.“Watch yer hand, there! Don’t land on yer wrist!” Even as he gives instructions to protect his brother, he is grinning from ear-to-ear at his current state of peril. 

Ezra falls from his horse and scrambles from view. She thunders away, snorting and kicking. 

Kanan and Garazeb roar with laughter as he hustles to scale the fence. He just _barely_ makes it: the mare nips her flat teeth at the air behind him, catching the edge of his blue-checkered shirt. The sounds of tearing fabric are consumed by his fellow Spectres’ amusement as he tumbles down into the long, yellow grass. 

“ _Hmmph!_ Good thing I have such a caring family to watch over me,” he gripes, brushing dust off his arms. Zeb tosses him his fallen hat. “Thanks for nothing, guys.” 

The two older men of the _Ghost Town_ ranch chuckle. Zeb wearing his favorite purple cowboy hat with the matching paisley bandana; Kanan, long and lean, is dressed in his usual earth-tones and brown leathers. His brother is closer to him, so Zeb stretches out a large hand to assist Ezra in standing up to his feet once again. He roughly brushes the dust from his shoulders, then picks a briar away from his collar before flicking it off his forefinger and thumb. 

“No problem, kid,” Zeb says with a wink. “We’ll always be here for ya.” 

Ezra Bridger snorts and rolls his eyes. The annoyance is mostly preformative: he loves working on the _Ghost_ , and he cannot imagine being anywhere else, nor living and working with anyone else besides the Spectres. They might be a pain in his ass on occasions like this, but they are his family. Nearly a decade ago, they’d started off as strangers; now, they are the people whom he relies on most; trusts the most; wants to make proud. 

Rubbing his sore tailbone, Ezra joins in their chuckling. “Did you see?” he asks eagerly. “I nearly got a whole _minute_ out there with Phoenix!” 

Kanan smiles at him fondly. The man has been blind for as long as Ezra’s known him, and he has been friends with Zeb for even longer. Kanan favors olives and earth tones, carries a rope on his hip, and looks every bit to Ezra Bridger like the classic, old-western cowboy. For all of his sass, Ezra dearly respects and looks up to the older man; and he craves every bit of wisdom that Kanan can teach him. 

“See that yer still havin’ trouble with that new mare,” Zeb chortles. 

Garazeb Orrelios is the type of man that many would call ‘ruggedly handsome.’ With his dark, shaggy beard and his work-callused hands, the cattle rancher and rodeo star looks as though he was practically born in a barn. Ezra ( _literally)_ looks up to Zeb, too; but not in the same way that he looks up to Kanan. It’s more in the hell-bent, mischievous, brotherly way. 

“Well, not all of us can be like _Hera_ ,” he replies, giving a subtle side-eye to Kanan. “I swear, some people are put together with the authority and poise of a general.” 

As he’d expected, Kanan’s lip twitches. Ezra and Zeb watch with amusement as the ranch owner’s angular eyebrows tug together, and his gaze upon the training ring grows stony as he prepares for his regular statements of denial.“That woman,” Kanan replies with halting restraint, “is nothing but _trouble_.” When Ezra and Zeb burst into laughter, the blind man’s face drops into a sour look. “What?” 

“ _What?”_ Zeb echoes, giving his boss a mocking elbow. “C’mon, Kanan: yer not foolin’ anyone.”

He reaches over to Kanan and puts an arm around the other man. The brown-leather cowboy glares, pursing his lips. Zeb gives him a little shake, and it makes Kanan’s long, brown ponytail sway in the stillness of the afternoon. “Look, it’s not like she isn’t talented. _Everybody_ knows what Hera can do; ‘specially, when it comes to piloting the more _unruly_ animals.” 

Ezra snorts at the suggestive look Zeb is giving Kanan. His must sense it, too, because he throws the other man’s arm off. 

“Don’t take it too personally that only _she_ can handle the Phoenix, Spectre One,” Zeb says to Kanan in a mockingly sympathetic voice. “Come to think of it, maybe it’s better this way. I’d only trust someone like Hera Syndulla, after all, to be in charge of _that_ much bad attitude.” He’s giving Kanan that _if-you-know-what-I-mean_ face again, and it makes Ezra grin. “Doncha think that it might be time to just invite her over here?” 

Kanan flashes the taller man a stormy look. _“Why?_ So that I can be _rejected_ again?” 

From where he is standing, Ezra flinches. He shoots a worried look over at Zeb, who merely shrugs. It’s an open secret that Kanan is holding a candle for Hera: their on-again, off-again relationship has burned to a smolder over the decades, and her presence is so familiar on the _Ghost_ ranch that Ezra feels she is part of the family. _(Privately, Zeb had even begun to call her ‘Spectre Two.’ Or, when the occasion called for it ‘Mom.’)_

“Hey,” Zeb says, keeping his voice light, “I was only jokin’--”

“--I know, Zeb,” Kanan says, cutting him off. He turns towards the barn, pausing for only the briefest moment to pat a gentle hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “Good job, kid. You made some strides today. See you back at the house,?” Without so much as a backward glance, the older man walks away. Ezra’s eyes follow him, creasing with worry. 

He turns to look at Spectre Four, who shrugs again and leans on the fence. Zeb inhales, then spits, sending a gob of something bright and shining out into the pasture. 

“What was _that_ all about?” Ezra asks, taking his place on the fence beside Garazeb. “I thought that recently things had been getting better between them, you know?” He looks the older cowboy up and down, taking in his grey, checkered flannel and dirty blue jeans. Zeb’s posture is relaxed, even if his eyes are tightened around the edges while he watches their mentor depart. He doesn’t seem as concerned. “Kanan seemed pretty upset back there, don’t you think?” 

Zeb sighs and shoots the last of his reed through his teeth. 

“Don’ worry too much about it, Ez.” He turns to look at Ezra, dark eyes flicking over his face. Even though his expression reads to him as concerned, he only hears confidence in his older brother’s calm voice. “Kanan’s not upset with you and me. Or even Hera. He’s...he’s just got a lot on his plate right now.” 

Ezra raises an eyebrow. He knows that he should probably drop it, but now, he is _curious._

“What kind of things, Zeb?” He asks, shuffling closer so that he is leaning elbow-to-elbow with the bigger man. “Is he worried about those calves that we just lost? Or that Visago backed out on his trade deal again?” The tightness around Zeb’s eyes and mouth increases, and Ezra finds his interest drifting towards worry. “Or is something else? Something regarding those foreclosure payments again?” 

This time, his older brother looks at him directly in the eyes. There is a sense of weariness about him. 

“Yeah, kid.” he replies. “All of that. Mostly, the latter.” Zeb sighs, raising one hand to take off his purple hat and to run a large hand through his dark, curling hair. “You remember when that posh, uptight fella stopped by in his stupid car the other day?” For a moment, Zeb grins; but then, the look is replaced by something dark and brooding. “Word got back that he actually put out that warrant. Sounds like he really _is_ some kinda investigator...and, within the week, he’ll be back. Can’t be anything good for the ranch.” 

Ezra feels himself stiffen. Easy-going, good-natured Zeb has always been hard to rattle, so his mood about this doesn’t bode well. 

“So. What are we gonna do?” he asks, falling into the twang of his brother’s heavily-accented Western drawl. “Are you gonna to stir up the Honor Guard? Do an old-fashioned rally and scare him right outta town?” Ezra hadn’t been around for his older brother’s biker-gang days, but he’d heard many tales of the trouble Zeb had caused. 

The question earns him a knowing smirk.“Nah, nothing like that,” the older man says, dropping his hat back on his head. “Some things are better left dead.” 

Even though the words are delivered with a casual tone in the heat of the day, they still make Ezra shiver a little. Not for the first time, he wonders about what exactly Kanan Jarrus had offered his brother in order to make him leave his life of crime and violence behind. It must have been something significant, to sway the leader of the most notorious biker gang West river. 

“Well, I’m sure it’s nothing that we can’t handle,” he says hopefully, nudging Zeb. “Right?” 

The taller man smiles down at him. Somehow, the gesture doesn’t go all the way to his eyes. It hovers at the corner of his mouth, pulling the threads of anxiety already winding within Ezra’s stomach. “Of course not, Ez.” He pushes away from the fence, opening another button of his checkered shirt. “Man, is it hot out here for August or what?” he asks, presenting the casual attempt at inviting another subject. “Let’s take a water break. I bet there’s somethin’ cold in the fridge if we dig back far enough.” 

Zeb claps an open hand on Ezra’s shoulder before walking away. 

Feeling more nervous than before attempting to ride the wild horse, Ezra chews on his lip and follows. _They’re always trying to protect me,_ he thinks, stepping over a mound of horse dung outside of the pasture. _But I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need them to pretend like nothing’s wrong. I can be helpful._

Resolving to make himself present whenever Agent Kallus comes back, Ezra follows in the broad shadow of his older brother. 

* * *

It’s just past dawn when the sound of a harsh, roaring engine pulls him out of his sleep. 

Fumbling around with his puffy eyes closed, Ezra pulls off his hand-stitched Star Quilt and staggers out from his twin-sized bed. He squints, raising one hand to shield those eyes as he peeks out the pane to the long, gravel drive. Sure enough: that obnoxious, unwelcome roadster is tearing down the lane towards their house, spitting gravel and spinning out at the wheels. 

He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Couldn’t you wait until I’d had _breakfast?”_ he asks, slapping at either one of his cheeks. When his fingertips brush over the raised scars upon his right cheekbone, he strokes them thoughtfully. “Guess that means I can blame it on lack of coffee,” he says, a smile playing over his lips. “Get ready for the storm, Agent Kallus. You don’t know what’s coming to you.” 

After finding a suitable pair of jeans and undershirt in his closet, Ezra hustles down the creaking, curved wooden stairs of his home for breakfast. The two-story, ranch-style house has an upper level that they use for sleeping, and an open, lower floor-plan for everything else. Still rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stumbles into the kitchen, peering around for the boots that he’d left by the door. 

“Mornin’, sleepy-head,” Zeb rumbles from his chair at the table. “You goin’ somewhere?” 

Ezra shrugs. Typically, he and Sabine would already be outside doing their regular chores: feeding the cattle, raking the barn, putting out fresh hay and oats for the horses. But this morning, however, was a _Saturday:_ the only day of the week when everyone on the _Ghost_ consented to sleeping in and recharging their batteries. 

For Garazeb Orrelios, that meant staying in bed until just after sunrise. 

“Me? Going somewhere?” Ezra asks, planting an innocent smile on his face. “What, can’t a guy go out and check on his horses?” When Zeb narrows his eyes, Ezra reaches out and snatches one of his buttered and jellied pieces of toast. He bites into it with a satisfying crunch, feeling a burst of salt and sour-sweetness hitting his lips. “ _Mmm!_ Huckleberry!” 

Zeb takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. 

“You always bring back the best stuff from when you take road-trips, Zeb!” Ezra continues in a hurried rush. _Maybe I’m learning more about denial from my mentor than I thought?_ “Where’d this one come from, Montana? You know, I really love it when you bring back huckleberry stuff from Montana for me. It’s my very favorite. Thanks for sharing.” 

Zeb sighs, setting down his mug. “What’re ya up to, Bridger?” he asks. 

Before Ezra can open his mouth and babble again, the sound of a loud, roaring engine wash out their words. Zeb’s whole body language shifts from resting-suspicious to active-engagement: fingers curling into fists, eyes flashing and hardening, mouth tightening into a grimace. He stands, pushing his chair back from the table. 

“Hold that thought,” he says roughly, stomping away towards the door. “We’ll get back to this later.” 

Seizing his chance of escape, Ezra darts for his boots where he’d left them _(in a pile, under the table)._ Sliding them on two at a time, he hustles for the door--then skips backward to grasp at the last remaining piece of toast. He’s almost out the back door, when he hears the sound of Zeb’s angry voice echoing over the open prairie. 

“--Thought I told ya not to come around here no more!” Garazeb is saying, loud and threatening. 

If Ezra had not stayed up so late to put his plans into actions, he would have crept around the house for some spying. As it is, he hardly needs to work in order to evade their presence: when he catches a view of the driveway, making his way stealthily towards the barn, he can see the two men squaring up on the road. _Damn,_ that Agent Kallus is _tall_! 

“---and Sheriff Pryce said that this should be sufficient,” the IRS agent returns. 

He is holding a sheet of paper out in front of him, waving the red-dotted sheet beneath Zeb’s nose. There is no immaculate white cowboy hat today ( _perhaps he’d taken Garazeb’s departing gesture to heart),_ but the man is still dressed in his ridiculously overpriced three-piece suit and fancy shoes. “It’s all official and signed. Do make your calls, if you doubt my validity.” 

Ezra peeks back over his shoulder as he climbs. The barn’s metal ladder is still cool and damp from the overnight dew as he makes his way steadily towards the loft to collect his items. 

“M’not gonna call any of yer bastard _cops_ ,” Zeb spits. From this distance, Ezra can still hear the rage and disdain that his words carry. He pulls himself up the final rung, dropping silently into the hay. “Good-fer-nothin’ _traitors_ . Don’t do nothin’ good. Causin’ far more _harm_ than anything else for this community.”

Shuffling towards his buried trappings, Kallus’ snort of indignation still carries to Ezra’s ears. 

“Ah, I see how it is,” the other man sneers. “You not only hate your government, but you also hate any kind of authority that takes action to oversee the rights of the citizens!” There is a long, heavy silence, and Ezra wonders what is happening between the two men on the driveway below. Hopefully, Zeb is making a rude and aggressive gesture. 

But the deathly calm of his voice suggests otherwise. 

“Of _course_ I want what’s best for our people,” he replies, growling low, almost inaudible. Ezra loops a length of rope over his shoulder, listening carefully to hear his brother’s words. “But I want it all done in a better way than it’s happenin’ now. We can do better; we _have_ to do better. Justice isn’t happening--at least, not for _everybody_ . Not for people like _me,_ and my family. More often than not, your laws and authorities are just usin’ their power to injure ones who need you the most. So they’ve lost my respect. And my loyalty.” 

Arms bursting with his gathered items, Ezra peers over the top of the loft. 

Gazing down at the drive, he can see Agent Kallus and Garazeb facing each other down, illuminated by the bloody-red sunrise of the morning light. The ISB agent is still holding the paper beneath his brother’s nose, but there is a look of perplexity--and maybe discomfort?--upon his face. It might just be a trick of Ezra’s eye, but he thinks that he sees that hand waver. 

Zeb, of course, is standing with his arms crossed. Tall and intimidating, he looks down at the stranger with a face that suggests he’d much like to punch him. 

“And so what do you recommend?” Agent Kallus asks, surprising Ezra with the quiet hesitation within his voice. “That people like me just abandon our post? That we overhaul our current system? Kill off everybody in power and put new people in? Or maybe, just burn it all to the ground?” 

Ezra eases his way down the ladder, doing his best not to slip on the dewy rungs. He nearly loses his footing more than once, and bites down on his tongue to avoid making noise.

“Nah. Genocide isn’t really my thing. What I’m _sayin’_ , Agent Kallus, is that you should seek out some _answers_ about the system that you support.” Zeb’s voice is careful, quiet compared to his earlier shouting. “So you want to do justice? Fine: then _learn_ about it. Get out there, go lookin’ fer answers about what that means. Because I can guarantee ya that there are some things that oughta be keepin’ you up at night, given our current financial and legal system.” 

Ezra finds himself holding his breath. Caught up in the drama of the conversation, he has almost forgotten what he’d gotten up so early to do. _Almost._

“...Perhaps,” Agent Kallus replies. He makes the action as though to reach for his cowboy hat--but then, finding it not upon his head, he runs a hand through his tight, sandy hair instead. The action inadvertently pulls loose a few golden threads, and they fall softly around his sharp face. “But, as it currently stands: I’m here for an investigation.” His eyes harden, and he lowers his hand, placing the paper firmly in Zeb’s grasp. “A legal, warranted investigation. Regarding the finances of _Ghost Town_ ranch.” 

Ezra watches his older brother’s shoulders slump. He is uncertain why those predictable words should disappoint him so. Alas, there is no time for mystery: he is now ready to release his secret weapon. 

“As ya say, Agent Kallus,” Zeb rumbles. “Well, might as well make yerself comfortable. C’mon in, guess I can make ya a cup of coff--” 

All _explodes_ into a ruckus of feathers and sound. 

In one action, Ezra has kicked open the door of the chicken coop--opening a direct pathway towards an unsuspecting financial agent--and has yanked upon the length of old rope, sending the old, iron bell into ear-splitting, clamoring chaos. The sleeping fowl, of course, are driven instantly into a fury: screaming and squawking and crashing together, they stream from the house, and charge down the driveway in puffed clouds of hissing aggression. Ezra, who is two steps ahead of their charge, scales the side of the henhouse and moves into safety; Agent Kallus, however, isn’t nearly so lucky. For the second time in two days, the IRS agent is sent screaming and running away from their yard; this time, by hissing and claw-slashing chickens. 

"EZRA!" Zeb bellows, shielding his eyes with his arms. "Why the hell did ya let out the bonzami?!" 

* * *


	4. Kallus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angsty agent lets off some steam. He goes to the ranch, and meets the WHOLE family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know diddly-nothing about money/crime law, so please just play pretend with me when I try to make Kallus' job sound fancy enough with my passing research. Thanks!
> 
> Hot tip: you're not here for smut and self-hate, just skip past the first line break!

* * *

_**KALLUS** _

* * *

By all rights, he should have been filled with fury; at the very least, _pain_ , due to his bleeding and bandaged fingertips. And yet, what grips IRS Agent Kallus is a cold, bone-deep sense of weariness as he slinks back into his empty hotel room, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

“Rotten luck,” he murmurs, dropping to sit on the narrow bed. “Bloody _murder_ chickens,” he adds, gingerly flexing his injured hands. “ _Shit!”_

Within the privacy of his room, he allows himself to hiss in pain as he works to unfasten the stiff laces of his bolo tie. He removes the cold, metal cuff and deposits it upon the shoddy nightstand nearby with a clink. Grimacing at the tenderness of his shallow wounds, he begins to work open the buttons of his vest and dress shirt beneath. Alexsandr takes his time to deliberately pull each pearlescent flat from the eye of its holder until it falls open around his shoulders, exposing swaths of pale, freckled skin. 

“ _Seek answers,”_ that low, rumbling voice echoes inside of his head. “ _Answers about the system ya support. Answers about the justice ya serve. You wanna make a difference? Fine: then get out and find yerself some answers.”_ Kallus runs his thumb and forefinger over the starched, bleach-white fabric of his dress shirt. _“Yer gonna find some stuff that’ll keep ya awake.”_

Grunting with irritation, he casts the stripped items of clothing aside. He is well aware of the corruption inherent within the system he serves; after all, he’d gone into this business in order to make the world around him better _,_ not worse. _Right_? So why did Garazeb Orrelios--and the rest of that rag-tag ranch crew--look at him with those hurt and accusatory eyes, as though he was serving some kind of enemy? As though _they_ were the ones who were not obstructing justice, and causing further financial distress for themselves? 

“ _I see how it is,” Kallus had sneered at the tall, handsome man the others called Zeb. “Not only do you hate your government, but you hate any kind of authority that oversees citizens’ rights!”_

He groans, shaking his head and running his hands through his loose, sandy hair. “Stupid,” Kallus mutters, tugging on the longer, dangling threads in frustration. “Wrong thing to say.” In retrospect, pointing fingers and swapping insults would certainly _not_ be the appropriate tactic to win over the persons of his new case. Agent Alexsandr Kallus has been well-trained in the arts of diplomacy, tension diffusion and conflict reduction for just such tasks; but _usually,_ such conversations happened in settings where people were sitting across from him at the table, wearing three-piece suits and exchanging pleasantries over brandy. 

_Not_ with a thick-chested ranch-hand, with those massive fists wrapped around the shaft of his rifle. 

To his displeasure--but not his surprise- _-_ the rugged image of Garazeb Orrelios makes the skin beneath his fingertips jolt. Scolding himself, Agent Kallus ignores this arousing sensation and continues the task of shucking his clothing. Divested of his top half, he continues by working at the broad, embellished buckle held at the front of his black belt. The golden eagle, its talons clutched full of arrows and wheat, is an homage to early symbols of national freedom. ( _“Of course I want what’s best for our people. I just know that we can do it better than we’re doin’ it now. We can do better; we have to do better.”)_ Kallus bites his lip as he parts and draws the leather away, feeling a rush of relief as his trousers expand.

Sure enough, he discovers that he is hard once again. 

Hard as he’d been when the bothersome man had first towered over him earlier that very morning; hard as when he’d shifted his tone from commanding to gentle, inviting Kallus inside not for a tussle, but to a warm cup of freshly-brewed coffee. Knowing that nothing good could possibly come out of this, Agent Kallus reaches beneath the band of his trousers. _I should be angry,_ he scorns himself. _I should be furious for being so disrespected. Twice!_ But instead, he grasps himself over the top of his cotton boxers. 

It isn’t proper. It isn’t professional. But _damn,_ if Orrelios isn’t just hot as _fuck!_

Agent Kallus groans with pleasure as he thinks of the _Ghost’s_ tallest cowboy. He sighs as he thinks of the breadth of his broad, muscular shoulders; _gasps_ as he thinks of the kindness in those rich, deep-brown eyes. Ranch-hands had the reputation for being tough, crass and gritty--but what Kallus had experienced earlier that day was that Garazeb Orrelios had been a _gentleman._ Not only was he strong enough to meet the agent alone on the drive early that morning, but he’d also been brave enough to move past their differences by offering him his best manners and inviting the threatening intruder to step inside. And _fuck,_ if Agent Kallus wasn’t there on a mission to dismantle the _Ghost Town_ crew, he would’ve most certainly take that invitation. Into Garazeb’s kitchen...his stable...his _bed…_

 _“Ahh-ha!”_ Kallus pants. 

Throwing a bent arm over his sweating forehead, he imagines meeting the dark-skinned man under other, more-hospitable circumstances. Orrelios would still have the same, shaggy beard and that rough, curling haircut; but he’d allow that smirk to play over plush lips, and he’d eye Kallus back with an open interest. They’d meet at a bar. Kallus--not an agent at night--would be sipping something expensive, and smoky, and then Garazeb would offer to buy him a drink. They’d flirt. Then they’d swam a few invitations. share some pleasantries, and then, _damn,_ he’d invite him to take it back here, or--

 _“Gah!”_ Kallus gasps. The image of their bodies coming together brings him closer towards his rapidly-approaching edge. 

Slick has now soaked through his underwear, so Kallus thrusts them lower, out of the way with the rest. To his humiliation, he’s currently lying back upon the small, hotel bed with fine trousers tangled around his bent knees; his wet, cotton boxers pushed down to his freckled thighs; and his flushed, weeping cock throbbing against his open hand. Agent Kallus exhales loudly through his nose, dropping his sandy-haired head back against the mussed sheets so that he can gaze up at the sky instead of down at his dishevelled appearance. _What would Garazeb think of me?_ He wonders--first in shame, and then with a thrill, imagining the other man lying those huge hands upon him. _Would he compliment me, say other nice things?_ He thumbs over the beading head of his cock, picking up pace at the lovely thought. _Would he join me here on the bed, leaning down to suggest that we--_

_“Mmm-nn!”_

As Kallus’ soft, manicured hands pump over the slickend curve of his shaft, pressing in upon veins and applying tension, he pictures a thicker, more weathered set of digits wrapped around his. 

Panting, _writhing_ , he picks up the pace. He can feel the sweat pouring off of his forehead, mingling with the hot, panting breaths against his arm. The combination makes him feel _wet,_ as though he were actually pressed against the body of another ( _specific)_ person. The image of Garazeb Orrelios fills his mind, and he spurs himself onward even faster in the thrusting motion. He remembers the way that one of Garazeb’s hands had suspended that rifle so easily against his chest; _massive._ He remembers the way that Garazeb’s voice, low and gravelly, had practically growled in irritation when Kallus had tried to distract him with fancy words; _hot._ He imagines what it might be like to place his hands upon the man’s open-shirt chest, to feel the pulse of that heartbeat and twist of his hair upon warm, sun-tanned skin--

“MMM--g-gaah!” he cries out. _“G-Garazeb!”_

When he comes, it is to image of being trapped beneath the spacious expanse of other man’s chest; with his hands pinned carefully above his head; with the cowboy’s plush ips working softly and sweetly against his ear, murmuring how _very_ good that he was. “F- _fuck!’_ Kallus pants, thighs unclenching in relief and abdominals trembling. His stomach is striped with thick, pearlescent ropes of his spend, and his chest heaves beneath his rosy, peaked nipples.

“ _Fuck. Uhhhnngghhh…..”_

If he’d had neighbors to worry about next door, he would have been more conscious about his obscene noises of pleasure. But like most of his travelling work, IRS Agent Kallus had made sure before arrival to secure the most obsolete, run-down hotel available for himself. He does this because of the slightest chance that he might meet someone and want to host an evening; but, as is more likely the case, he also does this so that he has a location of hidden retreat, just in case his work happens to stir up trouble. But he doesn’t have any nearby residents, and so he does not have to worry about others hearing him gasping and lusting after a man that he has no _business_ wanting. Who could _never_ want him in return. 

_“_ N-not good,” he mutters, running a hand through his mussed, sweaty hair. “Damn. Got to get myself together…” 

He swipes his other hand through the slickened mess that he’s made on his chest, shivering just a little at the sensation of pleasure over his heated skin. In spite of his reservations and shame, Kallus groans and allows himself to enjoy the feeling of being sated for a moment; of the illusion that his body is good, and that _he_ is good, and that he is wanted by someone like Garazeb Orrelios. Who is clearly a man not only of a strong and sound body, but clearly, also of kind and honorable heart. Maybe, someone like that could see him for what he is trying to actually do: to make things _right._ To restore _order._ To bring peace and justice where unrest and rebellion has caused upheaval. 

“Give it up,” he sighs to himself. The IRS agent closes his eyes, exhaling tiredly out through his nose. It is only 9am, and he is _deeply_ exhausted. “Nobody is ever going to see that in you.” 

Lying down on his rickety bed, spent, _alone,_ Alexsandr Kallus blinks tiredly up at the ceiling. In his release, salty tears had been gathered in and expelled from his eyes. They cling, shivering, to his long, white-blond lashes, fogging his vision and making it blur. It makes for a strange and surreal image: the lurching, circulating blades of the iron-grey fan, rotating in their ever-winding circle. 

_“And what precisely do you expect me to do?”_ He’d hissed at Orrelios. _“Abandon my post? Overthrow our system? Kill off everyone holding a place of power?”_

Kallus had never _meant_ to be the blood-sucking financial lawyer. He’d never _intended_ to be the one that his organization would send to sniff out and strip every penny from people who couldn’t afford to lose it. It helped him sleep better at night, knowing that most of these people are criminals: liars and thieves, forgers and tax evaders, people for whom the law was an exception. But when he thinks of _Orrelios…_ He has a hard time seeing the soft-mouthed, kind-eyed man as a villain. 

_But he’s a rebel against the system,_ his work-trained mind whispers. _He’s got to fall in line somewhere._

Rising up on to his elbows, pushing his trousers off of his legs, Kallus imagines a business-professional version of cowboy Garazeb. He cannot see it: a sharp suit; short-cropped hair; no tattoos on those long, sun-tanned dark arms. Kallus smiles at the ludicrous image. Even though he’d only just met the man the other morning, he’d studied his file for _weeks_ in the office in order to develop a strategy to take on the _Ghost Town_ ranch. In a strange sort of way, he feels like he knows that the man ( _hell, maybe all of the ‘spectres’)_ are not what the paperwork had presented. Garazeb Orrelios does _not_ strike him as a blood-stained, battle-forged biker-gang captain; Kanan Jarrus does not seem the type to forge chemical warfare. Ezra Bridger, while annoying, seems ultimately harmless and not like some kind of notorious thief. And while he hadn’t yet glimpsed Sabine Wren, Kallus suspects that she’d appear just as normal as all the rest. 

_Which is why,_ a voice inside Kallus thinks, _they might actually be dangerous._

If their illusion of calm, quiet farmlife is enough to make him second-guess his entire mission, then perhaps the _Ghost_ crew are exactly as skilled criminals as they’d been painted in his briefing. IRS Agent Kallus had been sent by an unofficial branch of the Criminal Investigations Unit to find something-- _anything_ \--on any one of the tarnished residents so that he might further work their claims angle. Outside of unmade payments, each one of them has their own questionable, carefully-protected background; and each one of them could be the piece of the puzzle that allowed him to confiscate their much-valued, much-wanted ranch land. 

Because the Spectres were sitting on _gold._

Not literal gold, of course. But the modern-day equivalent: _oil._ Agent Kallus had been informed that their particular piece of the North-Western Badlands is located upon the most primary, most _profitable_ piece of potential oil field in all the Dakotas ( _which is, to say the very least, a remarkable fortune)._ If the threatened foreclosure of the ranch could be enough to drive Jarrus and his crew off the land, Kallus and his team would be able to recover the land _(and all of its untapped value)_ for resale. Hopefully, to powerful investors who could return the value to his agency ten-fold. 

“They _have_ to know,” Kallus says to himself. With a grunt, he pushes himself up and gathers his clothes. “And they must be seeking to hide it. Why _else_ would they keep all of that land untouched?” 

Taking the time to gingerly fold his expensive trousers, dress shirt and vest, Kallus tosses his underclothes into the pile of wash and steps into the small, narrow shower. When he flicks on the hotel light, it stutters and whines in an unhealthy pitch. Frowning, he shuts it off once more and leaves the door open as he climbs into the bathtub. The gear-shaped spigot creaks and groans under his hand, bringing the head of the shower to life, and he tests the temperature for a moment before stepping under the spray. It doesn’t feel like home: hard-hitting bullets of high-pressured water, carrying with it metallic aroma. 

He sighs shallowly, allowing the heat of the darkened bathroom to wash away any evidence of his uncouth longing. 

_The sooner I can finish this job,_ Kallus thinks to himself, _the better. I don’t want to doubt myself every day._ Once again, he thinks of Orrelios: that warm, welcoming smile; those soft, earth-toned eyes; those large, callused hands. _Or, to deal with these feelings._

Scrubbing his hands over his belly and chest, he forges the mental resolve to outwit Garazeb and the other spectres. 

_I’ll go along with them for now. I can dance their little square-dance and drink their coffee. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t have to distract me from my real mission._ Lathering the bar of dull, flavorless soap between his hands, Kallus nods to himself. _And then--once they trust me, and the time is right--I’ll find what I’m looking for. I’ll get exactly what I need._

The rough spray burns at the chapped skin of his face. He winces. _Ought to invest in another hat…_

* * *

When Agent Kallus returns for his third time to the _Ghost Town_ ranch, he waits until early evening. 

The sky is particularly lovely in this part of the country at early sunset. Rocks, colored in hues from smoky-blue to brilliant red-gold glow in the late-afternoon sun, reflecting the heat and brightness of the hot, summer radiance as it slips downward through the sky. The open fields of brown, golden and lavender-grey grasses sway, rippling like the surface of an open ocean. Caught up in the beauty of it, Kallus finds himself hardly even minding the way that the rocks bounce off of his car, denting at the sides and chipping the finish. _(Hardly.)_ Instead, he busies himself with watching the way that the ruby-orange glob sinks lower upon the horizon until it is obscured by the low, jagged teeth of the early Badlands, and he is swaying along with the winding road that takes him to the hidden spectres. 

_They must be able to see me from a distance,_ Agent Kallus realizes as he pulls into the gravel drive. A crew of four people are already awaiting him there, each one of them in various stages of work attire. _Or perhaps I was fortunate enough to catch them on their way in from the field._

Stepping out of his car--being sure to look both ways for murderous chickens--Kallus moves forward. 

“Good evening,” he says in his most professional voice. He fights to keep his posture steady and straight, and his hands are already itching for the familiar weight of the briefcase that he’s left back in the car _(no sense bringing it out if he needs to make a sudden departure once again)._ “I suppose that you’re rather unhappy to see me here.” 

The ranchers exchange glances. Shortest of them is the woman that he’s yet to meet, Sabine Wren. Although she is slight in stature, she appears lithe and strong; and the look in her eyes is nothing if not ready for battle. Next to her is Ezra Bridger--eyes dancing, mouth grinning in mocking playfulness, he looks as though he’s recounting ( _and enjoying)_ his antics from earlier that morning. Behind him is the man who is no doubt Kanan Jarrus: from his long, smooth ponytail to his blind, milk-white eyes, the owner of the ranch is distinctive. And, of course: Garazeb Orrelios, the tallest ranch hand; whose arms are crossed impressively over his chest once again, and whose eyes are narrowed at Kallus in careful examination.

Kallus gulps. He finds himself wondering if he has passed. 

“Not unhappy, necessarily,” Jarrus replies calmly. “Surprised, maybe. After what this young man pulled this morning? We thought that it’d be a while before we saw you again.” As he says this, he directs a scolding look at the indigo-blue haired cowboy. “Sorry about that.” 

He hadn’t expected an apology. A confrontation, maybe; but not ownership of the action. Kallus, in his surprise, feels wrong-footed. 

“Oh, uh. Thank you,” he replies, searching to grasp hold of the typical elegance with which he speaks. “Do you mind if we have a word? As you might have guessed, I’m here as a representative of the IRS. My agency may have contacted you about my impending visit? Regarding the outstanding payments for this housing structure and piece of land?” 

Young Wren’s face darkens with rage, and teenage Bridger’s mouth twists in humor, but Kanan Jarrus remains kind and unfazed. He listens to Kallus with a steady and calm expression. 

“Yes, of course,” he replies, holding out a hand. “My kids have been giving you the runaround, but I assure you, you are welcome here.” Agent Kallus accepts it, feeling the rough, weathered skin of a man who works in hard labor outdoors. “I’m Kanan Jarrus,” he adds, “And welcome to the _Ghost Town._ Why don’t you step inside, agent? We’re just about to sit down for supper.” 

From where he is shaking the hand, he freezes. 

“Oh no, of course not!” Agent Kallus stammers. His face sweeps with a blush of embarrassment and discomfort as he considers the unusual kindness of the invitation--particularly, after the words that he’d exchanged on the first day with Garazeb. “No, I couldn’t intrude. I’ll come back tomorrow--” 

“ _Stay,”_ Garazeb Orrelios commands. 

He practically _growls_ the words, voice low and imperious, standing behind Kanan Jarrus like some sort of posturing bodyguard. With a jolt of alarm ( _and attraction)_ , Agent Kallus feels as though he finally sees the shape and size of the man as the cyclist captain: as someone who can, and _will_ tear you apart if you harm one of his. And Kanan, apparently, is one of his. 

“Uhm, I mean, _yes_ , that sounds, er, wonderful,” he replies, eyes locked on Garazeb. “Thanks.” 

Jarrus smiles and claps a hand upon his arm. With more strength than he’d expected from the blind, thin-armed man, Agent Kallus is directed towards the porch-wrapped house. It’s long, and old, and made completely out of what looks like wood. Kallus wonders why people who are certainly aware of so much _wealth_ would settle on having such an ancient, run-down home. 

“You’re in luck,” Kanan adds, squeezing his arm before letting go. “Our neighbor Hera is over tonight, and she makes a _mean_ shiro wot.” 

Kallus pauses in the doorway, surprised. _Hera Syndulla?_ In the different files that he’d read through on their case, he’d only briefly encountered the woman’s name. Known for her connections on doing odd jobs with Jarrus, Syndulla’s location was largely unknown. She had far less notes than the others; either she’d made an effort to leave less of a paper trail, or she’d cut a deal from someone high-up to clean out her record. Regardless, he knows that if she is involved, this means _business_. 

Garazeb grunts with impatience behind him. Sweating, Kallus scurries on through the door. 

The floors of the house are all old, magnificent hardwood that creak and warp beneath their footsteps. The sound of music and off-key singing drifts from the kitchen, and the late-afternoon sunlight pours in the large windows. It is filled with the rich, lucious aroma of spices; and these flavors pair well with the vibrant, eclectic decor on the walls. Here, a painting of a neon, rising phoenix; there, pressed flowers mingled with old, antique rifles. He spies the collar and bell of a dearly departed cat, sitting in a place of honor around a painted urn; he admires a family portrait, placed next to a hand-drawn map of the world. 

Kallus has paused to inspect a carved, wooden object with dangling squares when Hera Syndulla comes around the corner of the kitchen. 

“Ah? He’s _back?”_ Syndulla asks, raising one dark eyebrow. She wears a brilliantly emerald-green shirt beneath her stained coveralls, and it matches the glasses perched on her nose. In her hands she holds a large, flat pan with a purple-grey round of bubbled flatbread, from which a mouth-watering smell emanates. “Ezra. I thought that you’d managed to get rid of our _rodent_ problem with all of those cats?” 

He blinks, taking a moment to absorb the insult before flushing red. 

Kallus is spared the task of responding by the loud sound of Jarrus clearing his throat and shooting the woman a tight-lipped, furrowed-brow scolding. “Hera. We have a _guest_ joining us for dinner.” Syndulla places the pan on the center of the table, looking unimpressed. “I can see that,” she replies coolly. “Zeb, honey, go get another chair from the back porch, would you please?” She turns, long rows of braids tossing over her shoulder. 

“M’on it,” says a low voice right behind him. 

With a thrill, Kallus feels a set of hands brush against his lower back. He stands stock-still and holds his breath as Garazeb Orrelios shifts him out of the way, moving Kallus so that he can walk past. The slightest touch of the other man’s heated form in the narrow hallway makes Kallus want to release that breath all at once, so that he can reach forward and into that fleeting illusion of warmth. It is the strangest thing, but for someone who spends all of his time riding bulls, the man’s scent has the faintest aroma of roses. 

“Apologies,” Jarrus says to Kallus again. He gestures towards an empty, drawn chair at the table, and Kallus follows the motion to sit down with him. “Hera’s always had a bit of a fighter’s spirit. Although, you can’t blame her too badly for being protective of the ranch; she loves it here, and she’s lost a lot already.” When Kallus gives him a genuinely confused look, Jarrus shakes his head. “Ah! Nevermind that. Food looks _lovely_ , Spectre Two!” 

Syndulla places a ceramic bowl filled with a thick, red-orange sauce that smells _delicious_ upon the table. “Giving out all our secrets, Kanan?” she asks wryly. Fixing Kallus with a gaze, she says sternly: “I don’t trust you.” 

Agent Kallus forces a weak laugh as she turns on a heel and walks back in the kitchen. As Bridger and Wren take their seats, smirking at one another, he asks Jarrus: “Does--does she live with you all here on the _Ghost_ ranch? That is; last time I came to visit, I don’t recall meeting.” He wonders if he’s revealed too much of his own knowledge as the other man folds his hands underneath his bearded chin. Jarrus stares back at him with eerie accuracy, as though accessing his soul. 

“She’s family,” he replies steadily. “Or, at the very least, a close family friend.” 

Garazeb returns to the dining room with an armful of wooden chair. When he sees that the others have taken the regular spots, he pulls a sour face. Then, he plops the chair down next to Kallus--who is nearest --and draws himself up to the table. The cowboy’s flannel shirt is unbuttoned, just like the first day that he’d encountered him; and sitting at this close proximity, Kallus can see the thick network of dark, curling hair upon his thick chest.

Kallus leans back in his chair. He tries not to let his mind wander, as it had back at the hotel. 

“So. What really brings you to the _Ghost Town,_ Agent Kallus?” The ranch-owner asks, receiving the last dish of something steaming and bright-yellow colored from Syndulla. “Nobody comes out here to the boondocks without a damn good reason.” There is a gentle expression upon his face, but he gets the idea that there is tension beneath that square jaw. Jarrus is _worried_. 

Syndulla takes her place at the head of the table. The blind man reaches out to squeeze her hand, and she squeezes it back. He files that bit of information away. 

“Okay kids,” the woman says, “you know the drill. Zeb? You want to give thanks tonight?” Agent Kallus looks out of the corner of his eye at the largest cowboy. Garazeb-- _Zeb,_ maybe--shakes his head, eyes growing distant and clouding over. Kallus decides to file this away, too. “Fair enough. Ez?” 

The youngest man at the table raises his fork to the sky. “Food! Family! Friendship!” he bellows. Then, catching their guests’s startled eye, he grins. “Er-- _Amen_.” 

“Amen,” the rest echo. Then, begins. 

Kallus is used to fine, five-course meals. He is not unacquainted to wineing and dining prospective clients--or, to loosen up targets up for investigation. But he’s clearly been living in isolation too long when he jolts as Wren reaches out and tears off a large hunk of the moist, grey-purple sponge at the table’s center. He’s even _more_ surprised when Ezra does the same, reaching with his other hand for the bowl of rich-smelling, red-colored sauce and plopping a large heaping upon his plate. 

“ _Ahhh,”_ the teenager says, sighing with full-cheeked satisfaction as he takes a bite. “We sure missed you, Mama.” 

Syndulla gives Bridger a fond, tired look, then helps Kanan Jarrus by locating the nearby dishes. Kallus watches with fascination as the entire family digs into the meal using only their hands, gathering handfuls of the bountiful sauce with swaths of torn flatbread and carrying it to their mouths. “Don’ worry,” the low chuckle next to him says, “S’just chickpeas an’ spices. We don’t grind up our enemies and throw them in here.” 

Kallus blushes. He realizes that he’s the only one who has yet to partake in the meal, so he joins them. 

As he is only familiar with a certain, precise kind of European cuisine, he has _no idea_ what to do with his hands. But Kallus has always praised himself as a quick learner, and he watches Garazeb next to him reaching out and grabbing for another piece of the air-pocketed bread. Miming the motion, Kallus stretches out a manicured hand and pulls a fistfull off of the center plate. To his alarm, it _squishes_ between his fingers. 

“Injera,” Garazeb says with amusement, eyeing Kallus. “Also made of legumes. Ya never had food from Ethiopia, huh?” 

Following the rest of the spectres, Kallus daubs his ‘injera’ and pops it into his mouth. It’s a burst of delicious, aromatic flavors: heady spices; hot vegetables; rich, creamy sauce. He notices that Hera is watching him now, and he swallows and gives the chef a polite smile. “I have not” he replies bashfully, “But it tastes excellent. Well done, Ms. Syndulla.” 

There is a chorus of snorts from around the table. Sabine hands Ezra a napkin. 

“Hera,” the dark-skinned mechanic replies. “My name is Hera. Although, I’m sure you’re already well-aware of that fact.” Her mouth tugs, as if she is somewhere between a smirk and a frown. “You government agents always seem to do your research when there’s _money_ involved.” 

Agent Kallus flinches back for a moment from her bluntness. All around the table, the others have paused to watch the exchange. 

“Tell me: have you come to try and take this poor man’s ranch again? All he’s trying to do is raise a family. You and your lot have _more_ than enough to get by. We’re making our payments, and--” Hera is cut off by the soothing hand of Jarrus on her shoulder. He shakes his head, once, and she relaxes. “As you can see, you’re not the first to come and try and take it.” 

Poking at his food with a finger, Kallus carefully measures his words. 

“Yes. You are both wise and correct. I am well aware who each of you are; as am I aware of your history, and the history of this place.” He looks up, meeting Kanan’s blank, milky eyes and Hera’s fierce, ebony ones. “I know your names, but you do not yet know mine. I’m Agent Alexsandr Kallus of the Criminal Investigations Unit of the Internal Revenue Service. My organization sends me out to make calls where the financial claims have what we call ‘high stakes.’”

In the chair next to him, Garazeb shifts his weight. He doesn’t pause to consider if this is an opening invitation to talk more, or a threat meant to intimidate him into stopping. He rushes on. 

“As you know, the _Ghost Town_ ranch is several years past its due payment…” he nods apologetically at Ezra, who is looking frustrated now, “...and the deed has been threatened on foreclosure. The last time I called, I was assured that everything would be able to be met in full by the end of this fiscal term.” He looks at Sabine, who he assumed that he’d talked to the last. ( _She has the mettle for it,_ he reasons, remembering the way that his ear ached after their last conversation. _Takes after her mother, that one.) “_ As this promise has been made before, and as this land is such valuable property, I have been assigned to come and join you for counsel and conversation about your various options.” Garazeb shifts, and this time, he feels the looming pressure. “And to assist you through the transition paperwork, should the need of foreclosure arrive.” 

It’s quiet at the table for a long moment. Kallus rubs his fingers together, the vegetable sauce growing dry and gritty. 

“So yer sayin’ that you’ll be around fer a while,” Garazeb says. It’s more of a statement than a question, and Kallus nods at him briefly in response. “ _Karabast._ Alrighty then, I better ask ya another question.” The great man shifts, moving so that his full height is towering over Kallus in the chair next to him. “Do ya intend to fight me, if it comes down to fists?” 

Ezra laughs loudly and forcibly, breaking the tension. 

“Aww, c’mon, Zeb!” he says to his older brother. “It’s not going to come down to an old-fashioned, Western brawl _._ This isn’t _High Noon._ Mr. Kallus here is just going to help us iron out our paperwork! Like the good, well-paid representative that he is.” He turns his gaze on Kallus. “He’s going to help us figure out what we need to get this all off our back. And then he’ll be going.” Underneath that cheerful, youthful exterior bubbles a seething current of wild recklessness. “We don’t want any _trouble_ , and neither does he. _Right,_ Agent Kallus?”

Kallus stares at the boy, thinking of how earlier in that morning he’d unleashed those unholy chickens.

“That’s exactly right,” he replies, doing his best to sound smooth and elegant. “Very well put, Mr. Bridger.” The moniker earns him a smile, and Kallus finds himself smiling back. He’s only _half_ forcing himself into politeness; these spectres are, truthfully, quite likeable. Even given the stilted, awkward dynamic of their dining conversation. “I’ve rented a vacancy in the nearby town. It’s only a minor drive, and every day, I can--” 

“-- _Wait_ a minute!” Kanan Jarrus interrupts. His serene face now holds a look of concern. “You’re driving back and forth _every day?_ From _Bahryn?”_

He swings face towards the fully-dark window. Kallus watches him with surprise, uncertain why the man is so concerned. “Those rocky mountains and curves get dangerous during the night. It’s a pretty drive, but once the sun goes down, it’s treacherous.” Kanan shakes his head. “No: there’s nothing for it. You’ll stay the night here. In the morning, I can show you what I mean with the horses.” 

Agent Kallus feels his mouth fall open in shock. Having a meal with a group of clients is one thing; by _spending the night?_ At their personal residence? That was hardly professional etiquette. 

“I’m sure that I’ll be fine!” he answers hurriedly. Wracking his brain for answers, Kallus searches for an appropriate excuse. “My car handles well. It won’t be a problem.” _Hurry up!_ his mind urges him. _These aren’t your friends! You don’t want to be in their debt..._

A heavy, warm hand settles upon his shoulder. 

Kallus looks over, surprised, to see Garazeb touching him. The tall, gentle-eyed man is looking at the _Ghost Town_ ’s owner with a look of concern that he’d yet to see. Although his hand is soft where it rests on his muscle, the sound of his voice is set and determined. “It’s not a problem, Agent Kallus,” he says, eyes only for Jarrus. “I’ll help ya get settled. Like Kanan said: in the mornin’, we’ll take out the horses. Fer now, we can get ya set up in the guest room…” 

Sabine Wren groans and puts her face in her hands. Clearly, the young woman was hoping for him to depart, and she is exhausted from putting on a show. Ezra, who is sitting next to her, pats her shoulder reassuringly. When he meets eyes with Agent Kallus, he winks; and Kallus, remembering the chickens from earlier that day, nods back. 

_No trouble._

“Ah, yes,” he replies, once again plans divested by Garazeb Orrelios. “Yes, that would be most welcome. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Mr. Jarr--Kanan.” The hand upon his shoulder squeezes, _hard,_ and Kallus knows that he’s said the right thing. “I’m very grateful. This is all more than expected.” 

Hera Syndulla sighs. She stands up, gathering up her empty plate. 

“It’s settled, then,” she hums. “Zeb? You help the city boy get some duds. Ez, Bine? You two help Kanan clean up in the kitchen.” 

There is only minor protesting as the two younger ranch-hands rise from the table. Agent Kallus is impressed by the way that her instructions are followed almost without hesitation. _Although Kanan is the ranch-owner,_ he thinks to himself, _it’s clear that she is in charge here. The general._ Smiling, he turns and finds himself once again standing in close proximity to Garazeb. 

He blushes, stepping back. “Er. Right.” 

“ _Right._ You heard the woman,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “C’mon, I’ll need help getting out the quilts an’ stuff.” He turns, and Kallus follows. He enjoys the moment of watching the man’s strong shoulders moving in front of him, muscles pulling and flexing beneath the flannel “Oh. Think that ya can manage a 3XL-Tall?” 

If Kallus had been blushing before, it’s _nothing_ compared to what his skin does when he imagines himself in the other man’s oversized nightshirt. 

“Y-yeah,” he rasps, begging himself to keep it together. “Yes, Garazeb. I think I will. Manage.”

The larger man chuckles as he follows him down the hall. As they arrive at a closet--which Garazeb opens and begins handing him soft, patchwork, home-stitched quilts--he looks at him and smiles. It's that same warm, welcoming one that he'd offered when he'd invited Kallus in for coffee the other morning, despite their differences. "It's _Zeb_ , by the way. You can call me Zeb." 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Art by Sempaiko: Roll in the Hay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You ever heard of a roll in the hay, Agent Kallus?..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A ROLL IN THE HAY." Make sure to check out Sempaiko's other artwork at her [Tumblr](https://sempaiko.tumblr.com)! She gave me the okay to post this here. Please remember to always check with artists for permission before posting their artwork anywhere. Thank you!


	6. Kanan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a bit more about Kanan Jarrus. Kallus reveals himself to be (somewhat) less of an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this chapter was so hard to write!!! I realize that I have never written a chapter from the perspective of someone who has vision impairments, and it truly pushed the boundaries of my capability as a writer. It's hard to narrate when you cannot see your surrounding people, their actions, or the setting. Just want to give a shout-out to all of you; I'm going to keep learning and doing better to make the world a more hospitable place in your honor. 
> 
> All that being said: I hope ya'll enjoy!

* * *

_**KANAN** _

* * *

By the time that he wakes the next morning, she is already gone. It is early sunrise, and true to the pattern of when the world wakes him. Kanan Jarrus stretches, feeling the tired creak of his bones and the coolness of the empty sheets next to him. He smiles sadly and runs a hand over the place where Hera had slept only hours before. He already misses her warmth; and yet, even this is familiar. 

After the accident, a kind of quietness had settled upon the frame of his life and had become familiar. 

Placing his feet on the smoothness of the hardwood floor, the owner of _Ghost Town_ ranch steps out of bed. His feet are guided by the familiar creaks and grooves in the hardwood, greeting him as they would an old friend. It takes him no time at all to move through the rhythms of showering and brushing his teeth, combing his hair and selecting a hat. It is also easy to choose his clothing; by running a hand over familiar textures, he can even remember some of the colors. 

_(Besides. Ezra will tell him if he picks something too awful.)_

There was once a time in his life when Kanan had spent most of days wreaking havoc with Hera. Between the two of them-- _and her three-legged goat, Chopper_ \--they’d get into all manner of trouble. Once, they’d stirred up the small, local towns with their fellow ‘undesirables,’ robbing the rich to feed the poor. It was never rebellion without a cause; most often, Kanan and Hera were working to dismantle some kind of corruption or another, finding odd jobs to feed fellow misfits and pay off their bills. A few of those jobs landed them in the clink, and now that things are different--- _well--_ now that they have kids. 

Anyway, those days are over. 

Still, Kanan can think of no better way to spend an afternoon driving windows-down in one of Hera’s repaired muscle cars; with the red-gold hills flying past, the tumbleweeds rolling, and the clouds of fine dust trailing behind them. The radio would be on, and Hera would be belting what she considered some sort of tune from those supple, dark lips. Kanan, enjoying the view, would lean across her seat, press a kiss against the lovely skin of her neck--

He sighs heavily, stopping himself. Things are _different_ now, after the crash. 

Making his way down the stairs to the hall, he wanders his way into the kitchen. The delicious aroma of last night’s meal still lingers in the air, and it brings images of the pair of them laughing and cooking together into his mind. In spite of the silence of waking alone, Kanan smiles at the memory of Hera baking with him, playfully swiping a thumb of cookie dough over his nose. When they’d ‘adopted’ Sabine (and later, Ezra), they’d made it a family value of cooking together. There was just something about spending time in their bright little kitchen, bent over a table while crafting a meal together, that made the occasion of eating so much better. Along the way, the _Ghost Town_ had expanded their meal repertoire: Hera had brought her childhood Ethiopian; Sabine, with recipes from her family from in East Asia. Zeb’s infusion included New Zealand morai cooking, and Ezra--while never having been to Pakistan--wanted to learn all he could about his heritage. All in all, their recipes crossed half the galaxy. 

_Some things,_ he decides, _will always remain a treasure._

Humming, Kanan moves towards the refrigerator. He’s in the first stages of making his morning coffee when a small sound of surprise from the dining table distracts him. “Good morning, Agent Kallus,” he greets, turning towards where he suspects the figure is seated. “I wasn’t aware that you’d be up so early!” Typically, nobody else is up yet; no one except _Garazeb,_ who is already out doing the choring. 

“Oh!” Kallus sounds equally surprised, and a bit embarrassed. “I apologize, Mr. Jarrus. I didn’t mean to disrupt your morning routine.” 

There is a shifting of weight at the table, and Kanan remembers how Zeb had described him. _Posh. Arrogant. Far, far too pretty._ He can’t help but smile as he imagines someone with an elegant flair trying to blend in with life on their rustic, old ranch. Maybe this ‘Agent Kallus’ is still wearing that fancy, 3-piece suit of his that Spectre Four had so grudgingly admired; however, when he hears the man speak, he decides that he doesn’t sound nearly as uptight or pretentious as the night before. Perhaps today, he is wearing blue jeans. 

“You’re not a disturbance,” he assures the other. 

Kanan returns to the task of locating the cream. His hands search among the shelves of the fridge until his fingertips find it: the cold, smooth, rounded edge of the glass pitcher. Gripping it and reflecting upon what might make such a man lean towards such depreciation, he walks towards the table. 

“In fact,” he continues, “I ought to _thank_ you for stopping by. You gave the kids some much-needed entertainment!” He places the pitcher down on the table. 

There is a snort of disbelief, possibly humor. Kanan smiles reassuringly. “Truly, you aren’t bothering us, Agent Kallus. We’re always ready to take one or two more into our crew.” He returns to the countertop, searching for beans. “And while I know that the circumstances for your trip aren’t exactly _comfortable_ for either of us, I’m _also_ sure that we’ll figure things out. Given time.” 

Perhaps, his confidence is not shared. There is a long, tense silence from the IRS agent. 

Kanan sighs. He wishes that he could see the other man’s face. Knowing that he cannot read his body language or expression, he returns to the task of preparing his coffee. 

Of all morning rituals, _this_ one is his favorite. The elegant, precise arrangement of aromas and flavors that weave together in his favorite brew are something of a soothing and artistic experience for Kanan Jarrus. Losing himself in the comforting moments, he goes about locating and measuring the whole, unground coffee beans. As he grinds them, he enjoys the aromatic notes of oil that release chocolate, caramel and stone-fruits scents that drift to his nostrils. As he brushes the grated beans into the cylindrical glass, he enjoys the feeling of the fresh, coarse-grated texture beneath his fingertips. Humming, Kanan pours a measure of hot, steaming water into the prepared glass from the stove, feeling for the proper depth with the rising heat and the plunger’s pressure. 

“You know,” Agent Kallus says from the table, “It’s _quite_ remarkable!” 

Kanan turns, feeling his calm brows tug together. _Here it comes,_ he thinks tiredly, reaching down inside of himself to draw from his patience, _the part where well-meaning citizens praise me for being some kind of hero, expressing how well I get on without my eyes._

“That I can still live somewhat independently, and take care of myself?” he answers, unable to fully keep the shortness out of his tone.

“No…” Agent Kallus replies. “...that you’ve managed to secure for yourself such limited-edition, world-class french-press?” 

Kanan feels his resistance melting with delighted surprise. “Oh, you know _Coffea?”_ he asks, pleased that the city man recognizes the brand. “You’re right, it’s my pride and joy! Who says that you can’t have a good cup of coffee just because you live in the middle of nowhere?” With far more good-will than before, he presses down the plunger upon the rare, expensive brewing device. “Prepare yourself, Agent Kallus: once you have a cup from _this_ beauty, you won’t be able to ever go back.” 

There is a noise of pleased anticipation from the table, and he returns to his task. 

Kanan reaches out for the familiar place where the spectres keep their ceramic mugs; and, as he chooses the right one for Kallus, his hands pass over a smooth, asymmetrical piece that was hand-thrown by Sabine on her pottery wheel. It’s one of her first successful works with the red clay, and she’d fired it with a glaze of earthy purples and flecks of bright gold. It’s also Garazeb’s _very_ favorite. 

Smiling to himself, Kanan pours coffee into the cup for Agent Kallus. 

The next half-hour sitting and visiting with _Alexsandr_ is surprisingly pleasant. It seems as though Zeb hadn’t been wrong when he’d called the man smart; for while the CI agent hadn’t started off on the right foot, he quickly reveals himself to be an eloquent speaker and a fast thinker filled with witty banter. Kanan could see why any government agency would want to employ the man: even without seeing him, he feels inclined towards his charming presentation and confident presence. He can only imagine what kind of effect the other man is having upon their resident bull-rider, giving off these kind of vibes. He knows Zeb’s type. 

Still, _none_ of this changes the fact that there are more _enemies_ than acquaintances.

No matter how kind he treats Kallus, Kanan Jarrus will _not_ forget that. He will not forget why the man is here, nor what he intends to do to his people. 

After finishing their coffee, they depart together for the barn. It’s time to make good on his promise from yesterday that he would show Alexsandr Kallus the surrounding mountains. As they walk towards the barn, Kanan pays attention to how the other man follows him from a respectful half-step behind. His footfalls are uncertain, as though he is unacquainted with the loose gravel and sand under his feet; and yet, Kanan can still hear the crunch of his well-made boots against the earth.

 _Not stupid enough to wear those Italian leather shoes again,_ he thinks to himself with a wry smile. _But not smart enough to bring an extra pair of jeans with him._ The sound of rough, well-worn working denim rubbing together assures him that Zeb had indeed followed Hera’s instructions and given the man a fresh set of attire for this morning. _Wish I could see that,_ Kanan thinks wryly. _Posh city boy, wearing Zeb’s oversized, cowboy clothing..._

Cheerfully anticipating how his friend will react to such a sight, Kanan whistles as they walk towards the barn and the horse ring. 

The grass beneath their feet shifts into warm, rich earth, and Kanan inhales the familiar aromas. There’s the rich, earthy smell of raked manicure; the warm, airy tickle of hay; the deep, mellow scent of riding leathers, all oiled up for work and warmed in the sun. To his surprise, Kanan also hears more than one voice _(and set of hooves)_ emanating from the pen. There’s the rich, gravely sound of Zeb’s baritone... _and…._

 _“Hera,”_ he sighs, pushing open the gate with a sigh of relief. “I thought that you’d left!” 

The marrow-deep sense of _home_ envelops him as he hears Hera Syndulla’s musical laugh. The woman cannot carry a melody to save her life, but still, Kanan Jarrus has yet to hear something more beautiful to his ears. Stomach fluttering with anxious butterflies, he steps into the circle and follows the sound of chattern and snorting horses. 

“Hey,” she replies to him softly. 

Kanan nearly forgets Kallus’ presence behind him until Zeb’s voiced surprise greets the house-guest. “Kallus!” with a grunt, Zeb dismounts from his proud Belgian. “Yer up early!”He feels a familiar set of slim fingertips brush over his, and he closes his hand gratefully around Hera’s. He may not be able to see her face any longer, but he can _feel_ that she is looking at him with that kind, crooked smile. He grins back, light-headed in her presence. 

“I thought that you’d left,” he repeats quietly. 

Against his palm, he feels a gentle squeeze. “And miss a chance to see _this_ happen?” Hera asks, chuckling. “Not likely!” Dropping her voice and leaning closer--close enough that Kanan and feel the warmth of her breath fanning over the exposed skin of his neck, reminding him how they’d tangled together last night--”I can’t miss this chance to see him make a _fool_ of himself!” 

Kanan hums and rubs a circle on the inside of her palm with his thumb. “Which one?” he asks amiably. “Our cowboy? Or that fancy, new lawyer?” 

This earns him another fond laugh, and Kanan feels himself blushing. No matter how many years he’s been chasing after the woman ( _or has she been chasing after him?),_ he will never get over her. Never _be_ over her, and the fact that they’re standing here together. 

“With any luck,” Hera replies, swiftly kissing his cheek before departing, “ _both_ of them.” 

Kanan feels warm on his sun-tanned face from where she’d pressed her soft lips against him. He stands there grinning like a fool as he listens to the rising argument between Zeb and Kallus, which sounds as though it has something to do with horses. “Yer not gonna just _jump into the saddle,”_ Zeb is saying, voice irate and gruff. “It’s hard enough as a total beginner! So we’re not just gonna let ya go riding into the canyon _solo.”_

From his left, he hears the sound of Hera laughing under her breath. He also hears the sound of Phoenix approaching, snorting and likely waving her tail like a flag. 

He sighs, rolling his pale, sightless eyes. “Hera. We’ve got all manner of fine critters out here, and yet you’re _still_ going to ride that unruly monster?” The sound of eager hoofbeats and gentle snorting tells him that Hera has already won over the wild animal. To no surprise, he also hears her in the process of cinching the riding saddle and blanket upon her. “Fine, _fine._ You’re the General, after all.” 

Hera replies, calm and confident. “Yes.” 

He shakes his head. With a clink of metal and the swishing of tail, Kanan hears the strong woman mounting the red-coated mare. There is a sigh as she settles into the familiarity of the saddle, and the nearly-inaudible sound of her hand brushing over the mare’s sun-warmed fur. And he’d listen for more, too--but all of the other sounds are presently being drowned out by the bickering noise of the two, larger men. 

“I suppose that you want me to ride her three-legged _goat?!”_ Kallus is griping. 

Zeb’s snippy retort sounds almost amused. “Sure thing, Kal. But Chopper’s actually even _more_ ornery than even _you._ So that might be yer worst idea yet!” There is a shuffle and groan, as though the large ranch-hand has shoved the lawyer and made him stagger. In his mind, Kanan imagines the other man throwing a silent, fuming hissy fit.

“Boys,” he says calmly, “Let’s work together. You’re beginning to sound just like Sabine and Ezra.” 

Now _that_ shuts them up. Kanan grins, turning to walk back towards the stable. “Zeb, you’ve already got Lira ready to go, yeah? Why don’t you two just take her out together.” He gestures behind him, to where he can hear the quiet breathing of the great, golden-brown coated Belgian. “I’m sure that she can handle both of your weight.” When he hears a sound of sputtering protest, he adds: “Otherwise, Alexsandr, you’re free to try and ride _Phoenix_ alongside Hera?...” 

There is a sharp, snapping sound, as though the red mare is closing her flat-toothed jaws just _inches_ away from Kallus’ outstretched fingers. Alexsandr Kallus makes an anxious, disinclined sound. 

_“Right,”_ Kanan confirms. 

“Who's _Alexsandr_?” Zeb asks. 

Kanan continues his way to the barn, locating the settings by sound, smell and depth. He makes his way to the very last stable, finding his tall quarter horse waiting patiently there for him. Kanan extends his hand for a curious sniff--and then, once permitted, he makes a firm, steadying pat upon the creature's neck. The feeling of velveteen, well-brushed hair slides under his open fingers, and he relishes the familiar softness. 

“Wolf,” he greets his dappled-grey stallion. “Ready to take this lot on an adventure?” 

It doesn't’ take long until Kanan has his favorite horse saddled up and prepared for the ride. He’s an expert at this, plus, he does nearly the same routine every morning. It’s a gentling and trust-building process, placing the worn saddle blanket under the leathers, and cinching each piece of the saddle just right. One they find themselves fully prepared, he takes the leather reins loosely in his hands, steering them together out towards the sunlight. 

When he emerges from the cool, shaded stable, Kanan can practically _taste_ the tension rolling off of Alexsandr. Once again, he wishes that he could see the man now. 

“Alright,” he calls out to the crew. “I wasn’t expecting an audience, but it’s probably for the best. It’s never a bad idea to go riding with some backup.” With the assistance of the paddock fence, he mounts himself gracefully onto his horse. “Last night, I promised you that I’d show you the dangers of the mountainside, Kallus. So this morning, I’m going to take you out to the crash site.” There is a collective intake of startled breath from Hera and Zeb. “Once we’re done, I’ll take you back on the long route so that you can see the _Ghost Town_ in all of its beauty.” He smiles. “That way, you’ll have your bearings a bit better. And you’ll no longer be a stranger.” 

Even though Kallus gives a weak laugh to cut through the nervous tension, Kanan can still feel the lingering discomfort of bringing up the crash. But he can live with that. He lives with the consequences of that every day. Squaring his shoulders, he squeezes his thighs gently tother in the gesture of _forward_ around his stallion.

“Let’s get going,” he says to the crew of riders. “I want to make it back in time before Ezra can eat up all of those blueberry pancakes!” 

The smell of freshly-turned earth blooms in his nostrils as the three horses move forward. He can hear Hera, galloping ahead on fast and free Phoenix; he can hear Zeb and Kallus squabbling behind him, straddled over the strong-legged Lira San; and he can hear the eager, restrained breathing of Wolf from beneath him, ready and eager to give chase to their leader. 

He clicks his teeth and squeezes with his calves, breaking his mount into an open run.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes, next chapter will come from one of the boys, so we can "feel" the shared horseback ride...)


	7. Garazeb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeb struggles with his growing attraction to Kallus. We learn more about the accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna get into a little side-smut here! Endgame is Kalluzeb, so do not fret.

* * *

**_GARAZEB_ **

* * *

The sun is shining brightly overhead, and the sounds of the grassland are everywhere. Lurking rattlesnakes whisper and prairie dogs chitter; chorus frogs chirp and flat toads burble. In the far distance, big-horned sheep clatter their horns, scattering rocks beneath their sharp feet. Closer to them, a rock wren chirps out a tune, hopping cheerfully from one stalk of grass to another. 

But Zeb cannot hear any of this. His sensory system is, to say the least, _overloaded_ at the present. 

_It’s just been a minute,_ he thinks, willing himself not to lean into the warm, shared contact in the saddle. _Yeah. It’s just. Been a while. That’s_ **_all_ ** _that this is._ This is what he tells himself, as he feels Kallus’ firm, shapely ass pressed up against his own, parted thighs; this is what he repeats, like a prayer or a mantra, when his warm, shifting body threatens to run off with his imagination. 

_You don’t even want this,_ he tells himself, leaning away from where Agent Kallus is straddled over their shared horse. _You even don’t like him. He’s your...nemesis._

Strange as the present afternoon was, this morning had started out like many others. Garazeb Orrelios had woken up before sunrise, downed a cup of coffee, and gone out for his chores in the cool, pre-dawn starlight. He’d mucked out the barn, fed and watered the cattle, and checked for any newly-laid eggs. But then, as the rosey-orange sunlight bloomed in the sky, the fluid figure of Hera Syndulla riding on Phoenix had captured his attention. Zeb had paused in his choring, stopping to admire the way that his talented friend rode the spirited horse around the pasture. He’d walked over and leaned on the fence to see all the better, and pretty soon, he’d lost track of the time. So when the others’ arrival had sent his hurt leaping inside of his chest, was it really _Zeb’s_ fault that his body betrayed him? Or, perhaps, can he blame _some_ of that sudden, sharp longing on Agent Kallus; Kallus, who’d strode up with his hair glowing like unearthed red-gold? Kallus: who’d walked through the long, swaying grasses with Kanan as though they were friends? 

Kallus: who’d donned his old clothes, worn them like they _belonged_ there? 

Inwardly, he’d cursed Kanan Jarrus when he’d suggested that they ride together. The very _last_ thing that Zeb needed this morning was for himself to become more acquainted with the precise measurements of Agent Alexsandr Kallus. And yet, he’d still learned of the soft, grunting noise that he made while he mounted a saddle; of how denim jeans looked stretched over his ass. It had only gotten worse, the longer that they’d been out on the trail: in their short time that morning, Zeb had studied the shape of his strong, defined shoulders; the particular, smoky scent of his cologne; the sharp, sudden inhale of pleasured surprise every time he spotted something on the horizon. 

_Don’t think about it,_ he tells himself sternly, lean farther away from the other man. 

But he _does_ think about it. He can’t help himself. Falling into his own trap, Garazeb finds himself thinking of how the musculature of the man’s thighs would look wrapped around not a galloping mount, but around _him._ He finds himself watching the way that his sandy-blonde hair clings to the back of his neck, how sweat drips down that soft, freckled skin, and he wonders what it might feel like to put his mouth on it and taste--

 _Stop,_ he tells himself firmly. _You’re just sharing a horse. Nothing else._

It’s almost a _relief_ when they finally reach the familiar crash site. Normally, the sight of the spiked, jagged ridges of rock curling up from the gully sends chords of unease running through Zeb. But this morning--as he’s trying hard _not_ to think of Kallus, and how the man’s supple thighs squeeze around Lira--the sobering sight is a welcome distraction. “There it is,” Kanan announces, directing their guest to look at the valley. “It was nightfall and _foggy_ that night of the crash. Made it around that bend, but never even saw it coming.” 

Zeb feels the agent’s shock and distress as much as he sees it happen in front of him. 

Kallus leans forward over their mount, looking down at the perilous gorge while he puts the pieces together. Off the side of the road there are still deep, twisted marks from where the wheels of the car had spun out of balance. At the bottom of the pit, there are still burn marks from where the vehicle crashed. Although it’s been more than two years since the accident happened, even the best road construction had not been able to restore the damage. 

_“Wow,”_ Kallus breathes, his rich voice sounding shallow and tight. “That must have been _quite_ the horrific experience.” 

And it _had,_ Zeb remembers. He remembers waking up in the middle of the night, still groggy from sleep, and making his way towards his ringing cell-phone. He remembers the sound of Hera’s ragged and anxious voice, telling him that there had been a terrible accident, but hopefully they’d both survive. He remembers standing in the doorway of their ranch, receiving information from the local police that one of his family was unresponsive. He remembers--to the point that, sometimes, he is still awakened from dreams. Normal thoughts, twisting and morphing until he is standing and looking over this ridge, seeing the burning remains of a car and the people he loves trapped and bleeding within them. 

From where he sits upon his dappled-grey stallion, Kanan nods somberly. 

“Yes,” he replies. “It was terrible. It taught me to respect the power of wilderness around here... and it certainly reminded me of how very little power we have when compared to nature.” He turns his face towards Hera, who is watching stoically from atop Phoenix. “Truthfully, I was very fortunate to survive, even with the loss of my eyesight. _Hera_ here is the only reason that I made it out. Even with her own injuries, she still was able to call the ambulance.” 

Even though Kanan is smiling at her with grateful fondness, Zeb still feels the familiar pang of sorrow for Hera as he watches her face slip into a mask. 

“As usual, you’re being far too generous to me,” she replies. “I was the one who was driving that night. If there’s anyone to blame here, it’s _me_. Not _nature_.” He watches as Kanan reaches out a hand towards the sound of her voice, and he breathes a sigh of relief as she slowly takes it. Zeb knows that it’s been a difficult road for the two of them as they’d recovered after the crash; but he also knows that their love for each other is relentless. After all of these years, he’s never seen anyone choose to keep loving each other like Hera and Kanan. 

“And, as usual, you’re being too _hard_ on yourself, love,” Kanan replies quietly. 

He looks over at Kallus, still holding her hand. “You see, Agent Kallus? Even the very best pilot can fall prey to this danger. Skill level doesn’t _matter_ when it comes to the power of nature. You’ll always lose.” He squeezes her hand, then releases it. “So we do our best to mind that here on the _Ghost Town_ ranch. We honor the land, and all that is in it.”

Zeb watches Kallus as he looks around. He sees the man’s golden eyes reflecting the expanse of blue, sunny sky. He sees the motion of grasses rippling and swaying, blending in with the color of his pupils. He sees the lines and ridges of the hills echoed off of the colors, right down to the dark-charred spires of the crash. _What does he see,_ Zeb wonders, _when he looks out at this wilderness? Does he see something lethal to be avoided or mastered? Does he see something profitable, to be exploited for personal, financial gain? Or does he see it like I do--like our family does--as a sacred place? Somewhere that we live alongside, holding space for all of its danger and beauty?_

From where he is sitting in front of Zeb, Kallus gives Kanan and Hera a nod of understanding. “I hear you. Thank you for showing me this.” 

There is a long silence while the riders and their three horses gaze out over the landscape. The Badlands are deceptively beautiful: ridges and peaks of striated mountains, with chords of red-brown running through softer tan. If one looks at the forms long enough, the flowing shapes begin to blur together like water. After a time, it is an open, swaying sea of reds, greys and brows, scattered with hidden valleys and swooping peaks. Zeb inhales deeply, breathing the smell of clean air and open country. Above them, he can see the circling of a red-tailed hawk on the hunt for it’s meal; far away, he can hear the lowing of cattle. They remain hidden and unseen behind the peaks, searching for patches of lush prairie grass. 

“Best get a move-on,” Kanan suggests. “Like I said, we’ll ride the perimeter. Then, _pancakes.”_

As Zeb turns Lira away from the ridge, he is surprised to feel Kallus’ weight gently leaning back towards him. When the other man begins to speak, he lowers his chin near Kallus’ shoulder so that he can hear his low, quiet voice better. “I’m surprised that he went through all the trouble of showing me this,” Kallus murmurs to Zeb, his whisky-spice scented cologne drifting into his nostrils. It reminds Garazeb of bourbon and woodsmoke. “It seems like a very personal and deeply painful experience. Why would he go out of his way for a complete stranger?”

Zeb lingers a moment to savor the man’s close proximity. _Damn,_ it had been a long time since he’d felt another person’s skin against his. 

“Well, yer not a _complete_ stranger,” he replies with a chuckle. “Yer wearin’ my shirt, after all. And ya _did_ stay for dinner last night with the kids!” For some reason, the words spoken against Kallus’ pale, freckled skin make the patch of it glow. If Zeb deluded himself enough, he could believe that the other man was blushing at his subtle innuendo. “Remind me. How long did ya say that you’ve lived around here?” 

“I didn’t,” Kallus says, sitting taller and putting the regular space back between them. “And I don’t actually live around here _._ I’m just working remotely.” 

“Well, that’s part of the issue right there. Kanan’s not doing anythin’ that we wouldn’t do for any other traveller. Out here in the more lonely areas, survival _depends_ upon hospitality. Ya just don’t turn away somebody in need.” The image of Kanan standing before Garazeb’s open cell--a deed in one hand, cowboy hat in the other--comes back into his mind. “Everybody who lives here understands that. We’re not kin, but that doesn’t matter: we help one another.” 

The IRS investigator hums as he seems to ponder the words. Zeb settles back on the saddle, preparing himself for another long ride. 

“And what brought _you_ here?” Agent Kallus asks. He turns, and Zeb is taken once again by the startling beauty of the man’s features. He’s just so _clearly_ not from around here; with those eyebrows, perfectly-trimmed and angular; with the glossy, white teeth straight as a picket fence; with his rich-smelling, seductive, expensive cologne. “You said that you trust Kanan Jarrus, and that he’s a good man. It sounds like there might be something more between you?...” 

His surprise at Kallus asking about his relationship status makes Zeb actually start in his saddle, then laugh aloud. 

“Between me an’ _Kanan?”_ he asks, watching the other man’s face flush with startled embarrassment. “Naw, I’m not trying to make fun of ya! I just think the fact that we’re givin' off _commune_ vibes is kinda hilarious.” He regrets laughing at the other man so freely when the red skin around the man’s pale ears seems to linger and burn. “There’s nothin’ between me an Kanan Jarrus. Well, ‘cept a solid friendship.” He lowers his voice. “You _must_ have noticed how he is around _Hera?”_

Kallus’ shoulders shrug stiffly up and down. “I didn’t mean to pry,” he responds tightly. “I was just curious to learn more about your story.” 

Looking at the back of the other man’s head, Garazeb feels his eyebrows raise in surprise and suspicion. _About me?_ He wonders, allowing the smallest flutter of interest to make itself known inside his chest. _Why? Is it just part of your job as an investigator? Are you gathering data? Or--_ Zeb gazes at the other man’s lingingering blush, _are you opening up a door, and letting me know that you’re also interested?_

If so, he’s not sure what to do about that. Agent Kallus is... _pretty._ But does he want someone who has shown up with the purpose of dismantling them? 

Zeb notices that the rosy hue is lingering longer than it should about Kallus’ ears. Squinting, he realizes that there are tiny, flaking blisters beginning to show on the top shell of his curving, pink ear. It occurs to him _also_ then that he hasn’t seen the city boy wear any kind of hat since he’s shot the other one off of his head; and the sun has become particularly strong and bright. 

_Karabast!_

Without hesitation, Zeb reaches up and draws off his favorite, purple cowboy from his head. He lifts a hand forward and drops it, directly on top of Kallus’ golden head. The other man makes a sound of alarm and surprise, but Zeb watches it all with satisfaction as those pale, burning ears are coated with a protective shadow. 

“...Zeb?” Kallus asks, his voice sounding strange. 

The sight of the other man wearing his hat does something that twists low in Garazeb’s stomach. It’s a long-gone, but all-too familiar feeling: _possessive._ The realization of what he’s feeling for Kallus right now practically bowls him right off his horse. Zeb _stares_ at the other man seated in front of him, wondering why his hat and clothes look so comfortable on him. He can almost picture the other man lounging in bed, turning to look at Zeb lying beside him. 

When Kallus reaches up to take off the hat Zeb reaches out quickly to pause him in his actions.

 _“Wear it,”_ he says, using that same, commanding tone that he’d used last night when Kanan had invited Kallus to dinner. “Yer gonna need it to avoid a burn. The sunlight out here is strong, and if yer not used to it, yer gonna be hurtin’ in a few hours” He watches the agent’s hand flutter, uncertain, and then return to rest on the saddle. “Besides. Ya got some fair, pretty skin there. If ya don’t take care of it, yer gonna get _charred.”_

 _K-Karabast. And what, exactly, did you mean by saying_ **_that_ ** _?!_

Zeb swallows, feeling exposed. However, the other man is spared from answering his awkward display of affection by their mount’s sudden lurching over the road. 

As the Belgian rears up to jump over the worst of the rough patch, Kallus’ body comes sliding back towards him; and, just as suddenly, they are colliding together. Zeb is _not_ prepared. Not prepared for the feeling of his groin and center colliding with the warm curvature of the other man’s spine; _not_ for the way that longing blooms and _aches_ inside of his chest like a bruise, reminding him of how very _good_ is the sensation of touch. At this close proximity, he can _feel_ as much as hear Kallus gasp around his sharp intake of breath; and, before he can even think about it, Zeb is reaching around to steady them both. His hands connect with the firm musculature of the other man’s core, fingertips sinking into contracting abdominal muscles. 

When they shift upright, Zeb is breathing as though he has just sprinted for _miles_. 

“S-sorry!” Kallus gasps, reeling forward and away from his lingering touch. “My apologies, Zeb. I guess you were right, when you said that I was a beginner. Ha! _Clearly,_ I’m uncoordinated with horses.” 

His voice is high and tight, and the tension between them is palpable. There is _nothing_ that Zeb longs to do more than wrap his hands back around the other man’s waist, scattering any thought of that pressured laugh and sinking back into the warm, floating feeling. However, this is _not_ what he does. Garazeb Orrelios bites down on his tongue, and he _wills_ himself to keep the cold gap between them. “My fault,” he replies with forced cheer. “I shoulda been watchin’ the road better.” 

_Don’t be a fool, Garazeb!_ he tells himself sharply. _He doesn’t want you; he just wants your_ **_land._**

And this is the thought that finally brings him back from the edge. While it has been a long time since he’s held another man against him, he _knows_ that this Agent Kallus is not a potential lover. Nor is he a friend. He is an IRS agent; a criminal investigator. He is a person who has been sent there as an opposition, from a corrupt organization, in order to seek out financial gain. He will betray Garazeb in a heartbeat; he will hurt his family, and strip them of their land. 

_And this is why you keep your distance from others,_ Zeb scolds himself. _Because you start seeing things where you really shouldn’t. Start seeing things that might put your family in danger._ Grimacing, he makes the decision that needs to be made. 

“Hold tight, Agent Kallus; I’m gonna move us to a bit smoother path.” 

Rather than waiting for Kallus’ reply, or for the other pair of horses to catch up, Garazeb clicks his teeth and surges forward. The Belgian bounds into a loud, windy gallop--and all conversation between them is lost. As they fly across the rocky terrain, the ground racing beneath them at a wicked speed, Zeb begins to formulate a plan. He is going to _do_ something about these feelings for Kallus. He’s going to put as much space between them as possible, and he’s going to handle his dangerous yearning. 

The safety of his family depends upon it. 

When they finally return back to the barn, the horse beneath them is snorting and sweating. Zeb waves Kallus off, telling him that he will be there to join the rest in a minute. However, he does not return for breakfast with the _Ghost_ crew; instead, after brushing down Lira and splashing his face in the trough, he turns on his heel and heads for his truck. He’s going to drive into town and visit a friend. 

* * *

The neon sign isn’t illuminated when he pulls into the lot of the _Bucking Bronco._

Garazeb doesn’t care; he knows that there are patrons visiting the local night club at any time or day of the week. Gripping his keys in his fist, he slams the door of his rust-striped pickup behind him. Zeb strides through the dusty lot, kicking rocks as he approaches the familiar sight of the old, windowless building.

There had been a time when he’d been a regular here.

In those first few years after Kanan had found him, Zeb made frequent trips to sate his thirst at the _Bronco._ It was his only option; nobody of sound mind was _openly_ gay on this stretch of prairie. But everybody could find _something_ that suited their tastes, when it was the only legal strip club for hundreds of miles. The bar owner, Honey, was friendly and helpful; she’d always pointed him in the right direction. And he’d struck up a report over time with their _(singular)_ male stripper, Roy. It was him who Zeb would come find on those lonely nights, finding his company more than hospitable. 

When he opens the door, both of them are there. 

The lighting of the _Bronco_ is scattered and dim. Besides Zeb, there are only one or two patrons; a middle-aged, leather-clad woman waiting for her client, and a sun-weathered cowboy of an old man. Honey is dealing out cards to the latter, who looks exhausted while nursing his drink. Roy, however, is lying upon his back and talking cheerfully. He has a phone on one ear, and has one leg crossed lazily over the other. 

As Zeb approaches, the other man’s eyes widen with delight. 

“Hold on, hold on, sweetheart--” he says hurriedly to the person on the other side of the line. He places the phone over his chest, grinning up at Zeb with an upside-down smile. “Well, wouldya look what the cat dragged in!” he says playfully, waving at him with glitter-coated nails. “It’s been a _long time_ since you’ve paid me a visit!”

Zeb snorts and rolls his eyes. He _likes_ Roy. It’s just that he’s a _little_ bit. _Much._

The other man raises a finger, gesturing an already quiet Zeb to be silent. “You know what, boo, I’m gonna call you back later. There’s this _delicious_ cowboy that’s been ghosting on me, and he just so happened to step through our door--” With a suffering sigh, Zeb crosses his arms. He taps at his wrist meaningfully. “--Right. Of course. You behave yourself too, Granny Rose. Gotta go: love you!” 

With a swipe of his finger, he closes the call. Then, pushing himself upright, Roy gives him a bright-eyed grin. 

“Hey stranger,” he says, reaching for Zeb. “With how long it’s been, I thought that you’d _never_ be coming back!” When Zeb drops his crossed arms and steps into the other man’s space, he is welcomed into the warm bliss of a hug. “ _Oof,_ you’re feeling meaty. Been wrangling cattle still, and all that?” 

Zeb draws back, holding the man at arm’s length. “Ya busy right now?” 

The other man laughs. He gestures around the empty club, where the strobing lights flicker pitifully on the empty dance floor. “Does it look like I’m busy, Zeb?” he asks dryly. “No sir. You wanna take me somewhere?” His golden-brown eyes dance from beneath his long, sandy hair. “‘Save a horse, ride a cowboy’ and all that?” 

With a groan of mingled annoyance and interest, Zeb leans forward. He allows the other man to hug him again warmly, sighing into the gentle sensation. “If yer up for it,” he murmurs. 

Roy nuzzles against him, kissing the side of Zeb’s bearded cheek. “Oh, I’m always up for a romp with you, big guy,” he replies sweetly. “Just give me a minute. I’m going to clock out with Honey, so we can take however much time that we want.” 

Zeb feels a rush of gratitude as the man makes his way to the counter. It’s a small gesture; but it’s still one that speaks of affection. He finds that he _longs_ for moments like those.

When the stripper returns, he wraps his hands promptly around his waist. They’ve been together enough times that he _knows_ what Zeb wants: to be touched, to be _held,_ just as much as the rest of his body yearns for any other kind of other contact. “We’ve got the back room prepared,” Roy offers, “and of course, my dungeon. But I’m not sure what exactly you want?...” his hands sink lower, stroking against the firm curve of Zeb’s ass. “What do you think, captain?”

Zeb smiles a little at the old title. They’d first met while he was still with the Guard. 

“I’m lookin’ fer somethin’ a little more... _tender_ ,” he admits, pulling the other man closer. “Do ya mind if we take this over to the hotel? I’ll book us a room. Maybe we can stick around fer the afternoon? Get some takeout, watch some TV after?” He hears the other man make a sound of surprise. Roy looks up at him with open affection. 

“Wish you’d fall for me, Garazeb Orrelios,” he sighs, pressing their lips together. “But yes, I’d like that. Let’s go do something tender.” 

The old, broken-down hotel was not one where most guests visited. It was on the outskirts of town, and had the cheapest booking of rooms. However, that all suited Garazeb Orrelios just fine. Whenever he visited, he found all the regular amenities comfortable; and, more importantly, he found that it suited himself and his company well. After securing themselves a room for the evening, Zeb and Roy had ordered a batch of local Chinese takeout. Experienced in such matters, they’d placed the order to be delivered within a few hours--so it wouldn’t have to disturb their other activities. 

As it turned out, Zeb was _far_ more hungry than he had expected. 

Roy had hardly taken all of his clothes off by the time that he pinned him onto the bed. Their wet, passionate kissing turned into a sloppy, fondling make-out, until both of them were rock-hard and panting and dripping. Zeb had sat back and breathed himself down from the edge while he watched Roy stretching himself with a toy, then with fingers. By the time that he actually _entered_ the other man, he was practically already reaching his climax. 

He doesn't last long. 

After a few burning, breath-taking thrusts, he pulled the other man on top of him. Unfortunately, that’s also when he;d again thought of Alexsandr Kallus--Kallus, with his golden hair shining, and wearing Zeb’s shirt--and the image sent Zeb careening over the edge. Gasping and clawing his fingertips into Roy’s thighs, Zeb had swallowed Kallus’ name and unloaded the force of his spend. Although a bit surprised, Roy hadn’t been sad in the slightest. Instead, he’d finished riding out Zeb until he was soft; then, used Zeb’s own spend to pound him until he came as well.

A blurred, hazy feeling of guilt swirls in Zeb’s mind as he stares up at the white-washed ceiling. 

Not only had he driven into the _Bronco_ at this ungodly time in the morning so that he could forget about Agent Kallus, but now, he’d also _finished_ himself while thinking about being buried inside of the other man. Garazeb groans, his watering eyelids fluttering closed as he thinks of the elegant, city man laid bare. How _wrecked_ he would look, straddled over Zeb, taking every inch of his girth inside of him; how uncultured, how _ragged_ he would be, with one strand of hair falling over his eyes, with his knees clutching onto his bucking sides for dear life. 

_Karabast._ He’s just gone and fucked another man, and all he can do is think about _Kallus._ Zeb feels hollow and empty, but mostly, _ashamed._

The gentle, kind feeling of fingers brushing through the hair on his head makes Zeb open his eyes. Roy is gazing at him, handsome face flushed and tired. “That was quite the ride,” he says dreamily, wrapping a finger around one of Zeb’s sweaty curls. “You can take it just as well as you give.” Zeb makes a noise of proud agreement, and the other man laughs, charming and easy. “I meant it, when I said that I wished that you could be mine” Roy’s face becomes serious, and his fingertips rest still upon Zeb’s chin. “Tell me about him,” he asks. 

Zeb groans again, shaking his head. Roy scoots closer, wrapping him into his arms. 

“ _T_ _ell me about him,”_ he insists gently again, tickling at Zeb’s earlobe with his hot breath. When he chuckles, Roy smiles and kisses his cheek again. “I want to know who it is that you’re pining after.” When Zeb opens his mouth to protest, the other man shakes his head. “Don’t bother trying to deny it! You know: I _always_ know. It’s my ‘special power.’”

 _He does always seem to know,_ Zeb has to admit. There’d been that one time when Zeb had thought of offering himself up to Kanan, seeing his friend lost in his post-breakup misery. Threed also that time when he’d gotten tangled up with the local farmer, Gregor, and his twin brothers; _that_ one had been a _very_ near disaster. However, just like this time, Zeb had talked himself down from the edge. Instead of giving into his self-hate and longing, he’d brought himself to the _Bronco--_ where he could be honest and upfront about his feelings, and leave without any lasting attachments.

So far, it’s worked. Roy’s always been able to cure what ails him. 

“It’s this... _lawyer,”_ Zeb sighs, rolling away from his friend. For his part, Roy scoots closer, making a noise of interest. “Well, I dunno: some kinda lawyer, I guess.” Zeb continues. “He works for the IRS. A financial bloodsucker.” He sighs. “Probably, here to take Kanan’s land,” he adds darkly. 

Zeb hears a sympathetic noise of understanding. Roy places a kiss between his shoulders. 

“But he’s _pretty._ Fucking _too_ pretty, Roy. Got these big, golden eyes, an’ all of this _hair._ A good beard; shapely, cropped into mutton-chops.” He hears a snicker, and his brows narrow. “No, it’s not like you’re thinking. They look _good_ on him, not old.” Zeb groans, placing a glistening forearm over his face. “He’s young. Tight arms, tight _ass.”_ He thinks of Kallus, swaying before him in the saddle. “I shouldn’t want him. But _dammit,_ I do.” 

There is a long pause. Roy continues to trace patterns upon his back, until the sweat finally begins to cool. With a groan and a sigh, Zeb shifts himself into a leaning posture. 

He gazes down upon the other man, covered with a dusting of peachy-white hair and grinning at him from behind his red locks. Roy is still wearing that ridiculous bar through his tongue, and he’s sporting some sparkling studs through each nipple. But for all of his flash, Garazeb knows that there is nobody else whom he could discuss this particular issue. Nobody, of course, except Alexsandr Kallus himself. 

And _that’s_ never going to happen. 

“Wanna wash up?” Zeb asks, reaching to brush his tanned fingers over the other man’s skin. “Food’s gonna be here soon. And I wanna win at _Jeopardy_ again.” The laugh that he earns makes him smile with fondness--but it’s none of the heated, sick twisting that writhes in his gut when he looks at the figure of Agent Kallus. Zeb _wishes_ that he could take his feelings about the dangerous man, and place them upon the familiar figure. However, that is just not how feelings work. At least he is lucky to have a friend. 

“Yes,” Roy agrees, joining him. “Although, I you’re in for it, Zeb. I watch _Jeopardy_ and _The Price Is Right_ with the regulars every afternoon.” 

The rest of the day passes too quickly. The sun is hanging low in the late-afternoon sky by the time that Zeb prepares to step outside the hotel door. For once, their time together has not left him feeling sleepy and sated; instead, he feels…rather _anxious._ He can’t explain it: it is as though Zeb is walking along the edge of something precarious, skirting around a danger where he just might fall in. 

When Roy kisses him on the cheek good-bye, the other man sighs and leans into his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Zeb,” he says with warm affection. “And, do me a favor? If this one really is the right thing…” he places a hand over Zeb’s heart. “...Maybe, give him an actual _chance_?” 

Zeb waves to him and steps out the door. He is left feeling oddly with those strange words bouncing around inside of his head. However, he doesn’t have that much time left to consider; because there is another figure who is stepping into the hall. A strikingly familiar figure, in a large purple hat, and wearing a set of over-large jeans. 

Agent Kallus stops short at the very next door. His golden eyes roam up and down Zeb, taking in his freshly-washed hair and, very likely, the strong smell of sex. Reaching into his pocket, he slowly raises his key card. It could have been a trick of his imagination, but Zeb thinks that he sees something fleeting and disappointed upon the other man's face.

“Oh. Um. Good afternoon...Garazeb.” 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this odd little chapter? If you have the instinct that these characters have more of a backstory, they do. Find them in their original AU by reading my other fic,[ Just Between Enemies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169377)! And if you need more Roy in your life, you can find him in several other stories as well, including the great PattyPixie's [A Bad Habit to Break](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575314)!


	8. Sabine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabine and Zeb have some sibling bonding. Pie, feelings, and shovel-talks are to be had.

* * *

_SABINE_

* * *

When her brother returns home, he doesn’t look as good as she’d expected. 

Sabine has just finished up with the ranching duties ( _she’d had to put in a little bit extra, because Zeb had gone down to the ‘Bronco),_ and she’d anticipated a bright-eyed, flush-cheeked, cheery Garazeb greeting her at the door. Instead, she makes it home before he does. And when he finally walks in the door, his eyes are cast downward. 

“Heya, big guy,” she greets her older brother. “Good to see that you didn’t leave us for the ‘finer things’ that the fancy city boys have to offer!”

For some reason, her joke seems to fall flat. It is as if her choice of words inflicts that pained, pinched expression of guilt that is underneath his furrowed eyes grow even more pronounced. “Uh. You _okay_?” She watches him walk past her, stumping into the kitchen without removing his cowboy boots at the entryway.

“M’fine,” Zeb grunts. “But what’s cookin’? Smells _good_!” 

Feeling confused and slightly suspicious, Sabine Wren follows her brother into the kitchen. She finds him standing in front of the oven, sniffing the fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie that she’d just removed from the oven. _(_ **_Sabine_ ** _hadn’t made it, of course: Hera had helped Kanan to prep it before her departure.)_ Even with her limited kitchen skills, she’d still been instructed by Hera to remove it from the oven after an hour. And, by miracle of miracles, she’d actually _remembered_ to do it; thereby, _this time,_ succeeding in not blowing anything up. 

“Pie,” she answers shortly, narrowing her eyes. “Talk to me, Zeb. Did things go that badly with Roy?”

Her brother turns to her stiffly, crossing his arms in a protective gesture over his chest. It isn’t necessary; between the two of them, Sabine has experienced the most honest and trusting conversations about dating, sex and relationships then anywhere, or with anyone, else. She and Zeb trust one another implicitly. And besides, he’s the only other bisexual person _(at least, that she knows of)_ this side of the prairie. 

“Not... _Roy,”_ he replies. Zeb releases an arm so that he can rub at the back of his head. 

She furrows her brow in confusion. Sabine recognizes the gesture as one of her brother’s tells of shyness and foolish embarrassment. _Not Roy?_ She thinks to herself. She wonders briefly if she needs to prepare for another go-round with that trio of tanned farming brothers again. _Oh, Garazeb. What exactly did you get into_ **_this_ ** _time?_

“Forget it,” he says, shaking his head. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna talk about it.” Zeb turns back to the pie, looking at it hungrily. 

Sabine smiles, developing an idea. “Want a slice?” she asks. She nearly laughs when her brother looks back at her gleefully, and she can almost imagine a set of perked, happy ears. “Then let’s cut a deal: I’ll make us _à la mode_ with some of that vanilla bean ice cream, and _you_ will tell me what’s going on inside of your mind.” She watches the happy, expectant look drop into a scowl. “That’s it, that’s my offer. Otherwise, you can wait for tomorrow like the rest of us.”

She grins at how well she knows her brother. It’s entertaining to watch his strong inclination towards avoiding conflict wrestling with his insatiable sweet-tooth. 

Finally, he gives in. “Fine,” Zeb agrees roughly. “But I don’t wanna talk about it where we can be overheard. Meet me out at the loft?” he gestures a thumb towards the empty barn. “I don’t feel much like bein’ made fun of by Ezra right now. Or lectured by Kanan.” The feeling of confusion softens to concern. Sabine steps forward and puts her hand reassuringly on Zeb’s burly, flannel-covered arm. 

“Sure, Zeb. Of course." 

The _Ghost Town’s_ tallest cowboy gives her a nod and makes his way for the back door. Sabine watches him go, then resumes her work of rummaging around the wooden kitchen drawers to find some ceramicware for dessert. At this point, nearly all of the dishes inside of their home have been replaced by her hand-thrown pieces of art--and even though she will roll her eyes when Kanan loudly and lavishly praises her for her skillset, it always makes her flush with pride to see one of her friends using something she’d made with her own hands. 

Scooping a hefty portion of ice cream and steaming-hot pie into bowls, Sabine prepares a treat for herself and Zeb. Then, kicking open the door, she follows him ouside towards the hay loft. 

The sun had begun to set in the short time since Zeb had arrived home, and the beginnings of stars are glimmering on the horizon. This far out from the nearest city, the view of them is dark, deep and crystal clear. As an artist by trade, Sabine never tires of the masterwork set before her in the canvas of sky. She keeps her eyes on the orange-red, molton pool of the sun, admiring the way that the expansive horizon blended from warm, burning colors to smoky-soft cool ones. It’s her favorite--it’s Zeb’s, too--out right now: that soft, dusky, almost-grey lavender, shadowing the daylight rays as they fold into the evening darkness. 

She doesn’t have to figure out how to climb the ladder up to the loft with two bowls of melting dessert, because Zeb is eagerly waiting for his treat inside of the barn. 

He reaches out to hold onto the bowls with just _one_ of his massive hands, and gestures for Sabine to climb the ladder in front of him. “Ever the gentleman,” she teases him, hopping up onto the familiar, wooden rungs of the hay loft. This place is special to her, and she knows, to Garazeb and Ezra too. Countless days of their childhood summer were spent rolling and playing in the hay loft with her brothers, tying prickly bundles of the golden, stuff twigs together as they played whatever games were in mind. Ezra had always wanted to be a thief, or a sword-baring warrior; Sabine was the demolitions specialist. Zeb, ever the doting older brother, would often put up with being the ‘monster’ for their benefit during those days. As she watches him flop back on the hay, looking miserable even as he holds a favorite dessert, she can’t help but feel like he is considering himself as the ‘villain’ once again. 

“Zeb,” Sabine says, reaching out to take her bowl and spoon from him, “I’m kind of worried about you.”

She shifts to sit back against the opposite wall of the barn, so that the heels of their cowboy boots are facing one another. Starlight filters in through the open barn doors and tall, loft-side window, scattering them with the light of early-evening stars. “Did you and Roy have...like...a _breakup_?” 

Her brother snorts. He shakes his head, spooning his pie-and-ice cream combination. “Can’t break up if ya never were dating,” he says around a mouthful of pie. A blissful, sudden look overtakes his face, transforming it for a moment from sullen to peaceful. “ _Aaahh,_ that’s the stuff! Thanks a bunch, ‘Bine. This is already makin’ it better.” 

“Mom and Dad made it.” She pulls her knees up to her chest. “So what happened, then?” 

That look of discomfort crosses his face again. Sabine waits patiently as Zeb shovels more pie into his face, doggedly ignoring himself and his feelings. Then, after a few moments of silent and thick-cheeked chewing, he returns his gaze to her. It looks guilty, resigned. “It’s Agent Kallus,” he says slowly, as though in admission. 

Sabine nods, feeling relieved. _That’s all?_

“Sure. Makes sense. You’re thinking about what he’s going to do to Kanan and the farm?” When her brother winces, Sabine feels a bit of confused concern. When he takes another large bite of ice cream, neither responding to her claim with agreement or denial, she feels a twist of discomfort herself. “Alright. What is it, Zeb? You’re starting to make _me_ feel anxious.” 

Zeb sighs, setting the empty bowl aside. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Kallus,” he tells her. “I think...I’m _attracted_ to him.” 

The surprise of it makes Sabine’s mouth fall open slightly. _Agent Kallus?_ ** _That_** _asshole? Whatever for?!_ She blinks through the dim light at her brother, trying to read him through his body language. What she reads there is confirmation of what he is ( _and is not)_ saying--the stiff, resolved shoulders; the nervous, flighty eyes; the set, steady jaw; the tightly-clenched hands. _Oh. Uh. Guess this might be a thing, then._

“That’s...unexpected,” she offers, trying to find the right words for her brother. Zeb snorts. 

“But not altogether _bad._ I mean, I know that I have a strong preference for women, but he _is_ very pretty--” the sound that Zeb makes, somewhere in between angry and longing, makes her pause. “--but, yeah, I get it. I think I understand you about why that doesn’t feel right. Because he’s, like, our _enemy,_ isn’t he? Trying to _take away the farm_ and all that?” 

Zeb makes a low, brooding sound. He crosses his arms, sheltering himself again. 

“ _And all that,”_ he agrees darkly. “Ezra thinks that he might be tryin’ to pin somethin’ illegal on Kanan. So that it will just speed along the whole process of the foreclosure, and get rid of us off of this land for _good_.” He glares at a piece of hay swaying on the frazzled block in front of them. “He’s here to dig up our skeletons, ‘Bine. Not just mine, with the Honor Guard; but also Ezra’s, with stealin’, and--” he looks up, making eye contact with her, “--and yours, with the citizenship status.” 

Sabine feels her breath tighten inside of her chest. _We don’t talk about that,_ she thinks. She hates that such a significant part of her life is considered by some people to be _illegal._

“He can’t possibly know that!” she answers quickly. “If he doesn’t know about Kanan already, then he doesn’t know about any of us.” Sabine stirs her spoon in her bowl, thinking of the effort that Hera had put into burning any trace of their records. “But when you put it that way, _yeah:_ he seems like a _lot_ more of a problem than your typical asshole.” The idea of Agent Kallus digging into their secrets and causing harm for their family in such vulnerable ways is, indeed, alarming. 

When Sabine looks up from her bowl, she sees Zeb smiling ruefully. Perhaps, laughing unkindly himself on the inside. 

“Yeah. Pretty Selfish, right?” he asks, throwing in a light chuckle in with his words to try and make the whole thing more palatable. It isn’t working for her; and, she suspects that it isn’t working for him either. “ _Karabast,_ Sabine. I know that ya don’t get to pick who sets off yer ticker, but _damn_ if it isn’t stupid--and _dangerous_ \--of me to have it in fer someone like _that.”_

She can see the shamefulness and regret in her brother’s eyes. It makes her heart ache. 

“Zeb, look…” she sets aside her bowl and scoots closer, closing the gap between them. “...I’m sorry that you’re going through this right now. And yeah, you’re right, the timing and person is total crap.” She reaches out for him, and he leans into her, bending his tall head to rest upon her short shoulder. “But it’s like you said. We _don’t_ get to pick how we feel. Just how we _act.”_

Her brother makes a sad-sounding laugh, and she wraps her arm around him. 

They’ve been here before, sitting together in sad company for so many, countless occasions over the years: like when Zeb went chasing after some boy, or when Ezra had lost his most precious cat, or when she’d broken up with Ketsu. Every time that things got rough, the _Ghost_ _Town_ siblings had chosen to be there for one another. And Sabine Wren certainly wasn’t going to drop her brother _now_ , while he was blaming himself and in need of support. 

“Yeah, I’ll agree: it’s a bit reckless to have untempered feelings for someone like Agent Kallus.” 

Zeb gives a wet chuckle, wiping his face with that same hand that he’d used to clear off the strawberry-rhubarb pie. Sabine gives him a little jostle with their linked arms, making the pair of them sway back and forth. “And it is a bit _rude_ to want somebody who could, potentially, put us all through hell. But _Zeb--”_ she squeezes the hand on her brother’s shoulder, “--you’re _gay._ And he’s _gorgeous.”_

Now _this_ makes him laugh. It’s a rich, full-bellied sound, and it makes her smile in reassurance.

“But, in all seriousness,” she continues, “we don’t get to pick who we like. And yeah, it’s not great, but I get it. You’ve always had a _Thing_ for bad-boys and stuff that is dangerous.” When Zeb makes a protesting sound, she shoots back, “Oh, don’t even _start_ with me, _Captain Orrelios_ !” feeling her brother pulling himself together, she draws back and pats him firmly upon the back. “It may not be convenient, but you always have control. You always get to make the decision on what you want, and how you do things. You have a _choice.”_

Zeb looks up at her, listening. His deep, earth-brown eyes are slightly red around the edges from tears, and she is grateful to see him no longer stuck in his cloud of gloomy self-hate. 

“If you choose to knock boots with him, _fine._ But make sure that it doesn’t hurt our family.” When Zeb blushes and looks away, she adds, “And if you choose to just avoid it, then that’s fine, too. Maybe even better, in this case. But try not to hate yourself. We love you, and we know that you love our family. You’d never try and do anything to cause intentional hurt.” 

He sighs, rubbing the back of his head again.

“Yeah...not _intentionally,”_ he replies, sounding glum. “Unintentional, though? I might just fuck things up anyways.” Sabine tilts her head to the side. Her cropped, pink-dyed bangs fall to the side, and she looks up at him curiously through them to continue. “This afternoon,” Zeb continues, looking uncomfortable. “I tried to avoid it, like ya said. So I went into town, met up with Roy. Wanted to get a little... _distracted_.” 

“Called it!” she says, smiling at him. He smiles back, but only briefly. 

“Well, it worked; for a _minute_ .” Zeb’s thick lips purse in frustration. “But then I was... _thinkin’_ about him. While I was together with Roy. I couldn’t get away from the idea of how he'd look--anyway, yeah. Couldn't get him outta my head.” Zeb sighs heavily. “Which might’ve been fine. But _then--_ the bastard actually _showed up._ At the same _hotel."_

Sabine blinks rapidly. “What?” her mind spins at the comic irony of it.

“Yeah! At our goddamn _hookup_ _hotel!”_ Zeb explodes, waving his hands. “Couldn't get a room like a _normal_ city boy, picking out the other, fintel in town. Had to get _this_ one, that literally _nobody_ goes to. And not only that, but, guess that he’s got a room, and _right_ next door to us. So he came in, walkin’ down the hall right when I was leavin’. And he saw me _standin’_ there practically still sweating. And it gets even _better._ Because _Roy--”_ Garazeb pauses, inhaling through his nose in frusteration, “--Roy musta heard the confusion in my voice, and came to the door to check it out. When he saw me an' Agent Kallus staring each other down..." Zeb swallows. “...Think that he musta put two and two together. Cause he wrapped his arms around me from behind, and he said a few things. Possessive.” 

Sabine’s mouth is hanging open again. She shakes her head. _Roy! Fucking typical!_

“What kind of things?” she asks with morbid curiosity. 

“Naughty stuff,” Zeb grunts, “what else do ya _think?_ It’s _Roy_ that we’re talkin’ about!” He drops his bearded chin miserably into his open hands. “And, Kallus? Well, I doubt he even knew that my door swung one way or another; but it became pretty _damn_ clear after that, and it didn’t look like he took it favorably.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Turned about three shades of red, then purple. Slammed his door in my face.” 

With a hum of sympathy, Sabine places a hand upon his broad shoulder. 

“So, we know now that he’s a bigot,” she replies calmly. “So what? We already knew that he was a loser. And while work discrimination related to sexual orientation and gender identity isn’t protected by law in our state, I know that _Kanan_ certainly isn’t going to fire you.” She smiles at him sadly. “Might make a gross headline somewhere, but we can’t lose the farm over this.” 

Zeb sighs, sitting up tall once again. He sweeps a hand through his tousled, dark curls. 

“See, and that’s what I oughta be worried about,” he responds guiltily. “But that’s _not_ where my mind went. It went to: ‘ _Karabast! And I really thought that he might be gay, and that I mighta had a chance with him. But now, I for_ **_sure_ ** _don’t get one. Because now, even if I_ **_coulda,_ ** _he thinks that I’m a sleazeball.”_ He winces. “ _Or taken.”_

It would be a lie for Sabine to say that she wasn’t surprised. However, she keeps her hand still supportively upon his back. 

“Ah,” she replies, keeping her voice neutral of judgement. “So it really is _that_ intense. The way that you want him.” When he looks up at her, his eyes filled with embarrassment and regret, she pats him on his meaty shoulders again. “And maybe you’re right, and you read the signs correctly; that he is gay, and that it could have happened.” She rubs a circle. “But it’s back to our earlier conversation again, Garazeb. You don’t get to pick who you want; only what choices you make, and how you react.” 

Zeb rumbles and nods. He sits up, returning his discarded cowboy hat to his head. 

“Right,” he sighs. “And who in their right mind would go for it _now_ ?” He reaches out, takes both his own, empty bowl in his hands as well as her own. “Anyway, thanks for askin’ about me, Sabine. Yer a good sister, and a good friend.” Backing away towards the ladder, his face moves from an expression that is open and sad to one that is his typical, jovial self. “Thanks again fer the pie. It was _outstanding_.” 

As he begins to descend down the ladder, Sabine chews on her lip. She feels as though this is not over. 

“You want to talk about this again later?” she asks, calling after her brother as she too crawls towards the ladder. When Zeb’s voice replies, it is from the distance of across the barn. _He really wants to get away from the situation._ She wishes that she could help him to feel safe enough to have this discussion; but if he is done for the day, he is done. She will just have to do her best to be there for him if the time comes. “I hope not,” he replies. 

Sabine takes her time walking home from the barn.

As she mulls over their conversation, she worries a bit about her brother, and how lofty of standards he always seems to hold himself towards. She wonders about his feelings for Kallus, and how much he might be punishing himself for the organic attraction. She imagines how it must have felt between the three men in the hallway--stilled, awkward, uncomfortable--and she tries to imagine what was going on inside of Roy’s head, to make him act like and say what he did. _Probably,_ Sabine thinks, gazing up at the stars, _he had a very good reason. Roy’s always looked out for Zeb. Even if it hurt, he might actually know what he is doing…_

Feeling unresolved, she makes her way back towards the house. Hopefully, her brother will feel a little better about all of this in the morning. 

* * *

When Agent Kallus shows up with the next sunrise, it’s clear that Garazeb is not yet feeling his best. 

This time, the IRS agent has enough common sense to show up without his three-piece suit and bolo tie, but instead, with a smart pair of crisp, well-fitted blue jeans and button-down shirt. He wears it with the first two eyes hanging open, so that the whiteness of his undershirt can be seen from beneath. Apparently, this is _too much_ for Zeb--because he makes tracks for the cattle fields just as soon as the sandy-haired man steps out of his roadster. 

“Good morning,” Kallus says, placing Zeb’s purple cowboy hat upon his head. _Apparently,_ Sabine thinks, _that’s become a thing, too._ “How are you, Ms. Wren?” 

Sabine hadn’t spent the morning out riding with the others yesterday, so she doesn’t have the measure of Kallus in the same way that Kanan does. According to the _Ghost Town’s_ ranch owner, the man is alright; he is financial trouble for them, sure, but he’s also going to be civil and polite about it. The agent had shown her as much over breakfast: rolling with all of Ezra’s light, playful jokes, and eating his own, fair portion of pancakes. 

Eyeing the hat on his head, Sabine is still having a few of her own, private doubts. 

“What’s up, Freckles?” she asks, trying to sound equally friendly and defensive. “You got something for us to work on this morning?” Sabine watches as Kallus blushes and tips his hat downwards. _If Hera isn’t putting up with any bullshit,_ she thinks, _then I’m not going to, either._ “Better not have anything to do with my brother.” 

The agent looks up, alarmed and confused. Yes; the expression is readable upon his face. 

“Wh--Garazeb? No. I’m here to talk with Kanan.” he frowns. “But...what’s this about your brother?” he looks her up and down, those golden eyes taking her action-ready posture and the defiant hand placed upon her hip. “It seems...as though I have managed to upset you somehow,” he offers. 

Sabine narrows her eyes. She is trying to gauge his intentions. 

“You didn’t bother _me,_ exactly,” she says cooly, “but you _did_ disturb my brother.” And there it is again: that look of alarm, maybe fear, on his face. _Good. He knows who he is dealing with when he’s talking to the Spectres._ “Zeb mentioned that he ran into you while he was in town. But he didn’t seem very happy about it.” She allows her gaze to grow sharp as a blade. “Seemed a bit uncomfortable _.”_

It’s _Kallus_ who is looking uncomfortable now. The man shifts his weight from foot to foot, as though he is considering running. “Do we have a problem, Agent Kallus?” she asks. 

The man raises his gaze and shakes his head slowly. He raises a hand, sweeping Zeb’s purple hat off of his head. When he answers, his voice is in that rich, eloquent voice, nothing like the fear revealed by his eyes. “I cannot imagine any kind of problem from my end,” Agent Kallus replies--and _damn,_ if that voice isn’t as low and as rich as silver. “Garazeb Orrelios is one of the finest men that I’ve had the pleasure to encounter....criminal record withstanding, of course.” 

Kallus nods at her. Sabine inclines her head, acknowledging the knowledge between them. 

“I have no problem with your brother,” the agent continues. The sure, certain way that he says it--practiced and smooth--makes it sound to Sabine as though the other man had practiced those lines to perfection in the mirror. Perhaps, he _had._ She’d have no way to tell. “And I would hope that he has no problem with me.”

In her opinion, the man is clearly holding his cards close to his chest. Sabine shrugs one shoulder. _I can live with that. You don’t hurt mine, and I won’t hurt yours._

“Good to hear,” she replies, allowing her voice to become polite and civil once more. “I would hate to have to show you the back pasture.” When the other man blinks at her in comprehension, she adds, “You know. Where we bury the bodies of bigots. And other disgraceful people who trespass on our land.” She bares her teeth in a grin. 

If it’s at all possible, the pale man flushes another shade whiter. 

“Now, what did you say about needing to speak with Kanan?” she asks sweetly. “He’s out with Ezra in the horse pasture. I can go fetch him for you, no problem at all.” Without waiting to hear his answer, she turns on her heel and walks towards the barn. _That’s right, Kallus: don’t fuck with my brother._ She stomps a toe of her boot into the dirt.

_Not unless, you know. He asks you for it._

* * *

  
  



	9. Kallus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Kallus is acting shady. Some time at the fair shifts everyone's mood.

* * *

_Kallus_

* * *

That morning passed slowly and tediously for Agent Kallus. 

While he read through and annotated all of the _Ghost_ ’s thick financial records, all that he could think of was that awkward, telling encounter with Garazeb Orrelios. Because, no matter _what_ he’d told the man’s younger sister, the information that Agent Kallus had learned in that dingy hotel hallway had shifted something inside of him. 

Or, more accurately: had _destroyed_ it. 

Kallus had spent the night twisting and writhing in his sweaty sheets, gasping aloud to the image of handsome, strong-backed Garazeb buried inside of a man to the hilt. _He’s. He’s like_ ** _that_** _,_ Kallus thought, thrusting feverishly into one hand as he fingered himself from behind with the other. _He’s like_ ** _me_** _._ The cursed, lovely revelation that Zeb Orrelios also favored men as his romantic partners had crushed every last bit of his dignity; and it had taken every ounce of his will power to go crawling back to the _Ghost Town_ ranch after this, keeping the purple cowboy hat draped low over his tired, shadowed eyes. 

_They will never know what I want,_ he’d thought to himself, stepping out of his car and into his working persona. _They can’t know. It could wreck everything._

After a stilted encounter with Sabine Wren, he’d followed Kanan into the house, pausing only for another good cup of coffee before starting out on their days work. At the beginning, the ranch owner had stayed in the room with him; Kallus couldn’t tell if he was being friendly, or if he was suspicious of his presence there. _As you should be,_ he thinks, watching the blind man shifting his sensitive thumbs over the edges of manila folders. _I can and will use anything that I find here against you._ But as the morning went on, even Kanan had grown bored. He’d left Kallus there in the dusty, sunlit to his duties, instructing him to come down and join the rest of them for a late afternoon lunch when he was ready. 

Kallus had thanked him, but had no intention of jointing them later. He was going to _find_ what he was looking for. _Today_ , so that this whole ordeal could end all the sooner. 

Because--if he had to admit it to himself--Agent Kallus wasn’t just attracted to Zeb. He was _interested_ in the spectres. The whole ‘family’ crew, as they referred to themselves. Yesterday, after learning more than he’d ever expected to ( _at least, by such free admission)_ about Kanan Jarrus and Hera Syndulla on their horseback ride, he’d attended breakfast with the rest of the ranch-hands. Even though he had been keenly aware of the eldest brother’s absence, Kallus had found himself actually having a good time. It had been pleasant: passing the ceramic, hand-made bowl of freshly-picked blueberries back and forth, listening to young Ezra Bridger tell his tall tales, and watching Sabine balance her spoon on her nose. Hera was a magnificent baker and chef--something that his paperwork had never told him--and when she wasn’t defending her family with the bite of her words, she could be incredibly witty and funny. And then, of course, there was Kanan Jarrus: a man with such a soothing, gentle presence that even Kallus found himself being lulled into comfortable familiarity. It isn’t just that he likes the spectres. It’s that he thinks that they are _good people,_ and highly enjoyable to be around. 

Which makes what he must do all the more disappointing. 

It’s not until well into the late afternoon that he finally discovers what he’s looking for. Thumbing open a mundane, bent-cornered folder, he suddenly spies an old, faded document printed on recycled computer paper. It’s not the paper itself that intrigues him; it’s the light, careful scrawl of looping handwriting written on the margins in emerald ink. 

“ ** _Burn_ ** _this one,”_ Hera Syndulla’s scribble instructs. _“Do not want this in the wrong hands.”_

Humming with interest, Agent Kallus draws out the paperwork from the file. What falls open into his hands is _precisely_ what he has been looking for: a series of profiles, lists, and even _pictures_ on the detailed history of the spectres. On an official-looking piece of paper, printed in only Mandarin script, there is a picture of Sabine Wren. Behind that, there is a set of miscellaneous tickets, warrants and arrest records for Garazeb Orrelios. A folded-in-half, faded picture of Kanan Jarrus--with tall, dark-skinned woman clad in Punjabi with her arms around him--follows that. Finally, there falls out a green sticky note, with only _“Karthakk Group”_ written upon it. 

As his hand draws out the next tattered document, realization thunders within his chest. “ _Jackpot,”_ he whispers tensely.

Not only does this file contain condemning, well-hidden information on the spectres; it also appears to contain the legal and financial documents for acquiring all of the _Ghost_ _Town_ ranch’s current land. Printed in elegant, calligraphic lettering, he finds the original deed to the ranch in pristine condition. On one side, the terms of purchase and agreement are printed in neat, spiky writing; on the other, there is an elegantly-drawn map, including--Kallus’ heart leaps--distinctive pockets of _oil_ marked beneath.

 _“Yess,”_ he hisses, practically tasting victory now. This is what he _wants._ This is what he _needs._

A low, creaking noise from the wooden stairs makes Agent Kallus jump. He looks hurriedly over his shoulder, but sees none of the spectres standing there. Hastily, he shoves the paper back into the file, and stuffs it haphazardly back into the box; Kallus knows that he will be able come back here, with an easy excuse, if he needs to find more details later. But for now, he has everything that he could possibly want, if not more. He knows the name of the original landowners-- _Vanto--_ and he knows their address-- _nearby enough to pay them a visit._

Kallus smiles, the feeling of conquest blooming hot and addictive inside his chest. Yes. It will be good protocol, just to go to the present residents to double-check. But he doubt that there is anything that he’s missed. _At this point, it doesn’t matter,_ Kallus thinks to himself. _I’ve got them inside of my grasp, and there’s nothing that they can do to get away. Not Garazeb Orrelios, nor anyone else._

It is the thought of Zeb--tall, strong, and tender-eyed--that finally gives him a moment of pause. 

Agent Kallus sighs, ruffling a hand through the golden hair on his head. The thought of Zeb’s face when he would, _eventually,_ find out about Kallus’ plan was enough to plunge his sudden, burning heart into cold water. Kallus frowns. Typically, he is used to riding out the high of his completed hunt for several hours--if not _days--_ of luxurious bliss afterwards. But somehow, the moment has already escaped him; he can feel it trickling away through his hands, as though the image of the _Ghost_ ’s largest ranch-hand had punched hold into his full skein of water. 

_No,_ he tells himself, thinking of the way that arms had wrapped around the man at the hotel. _No use feeling bad._ Because Garazeb Orrelios is unavailable. There is no doubt about that. 

The cheerfulness of his mood has almost fully faded away into sour by the time that Kanan knocks on the door. Kallus looks up, and the pale-eyed man walks into the room. He is covered in earth, grime and dust, and seems to be smelling strongly of mucking the stable. However, his smile is warm and genuine, and he doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest. 

“Afternoon, Alexsandr!” he says, gazing in his general direction. “You’ve been working like a dog up here. Have some success?” 

_You have no idea,_ Kallus thinks ruefully inside of his head. Instead, he answers in that polished, practiced voice: “Ah, Kanan! A fine afternoon to you as well. No; I didn’t make nearly as much progress as I would have liked.” Pressing his hands into the table, he rises up to stand with the man. “It’s tiring work, but it’s necessary. If I keep my eyes open, I might yet still find something that can help you.” 

“Then we’re lucky,” Kanan replies. The man lifts a hand, taps at his blind temple. “‘Cause I can’t see anything.” 

He isn’t sure whether to laugh or not, so perhaps the silence stretches onward for longer than it should. After a moment, Kanan coughs into his hand. “Regardless, you’ve been mighty busy up here. So, since we’re headed out tonight for the event I just wanted to check--” he raises an open palm, “--you want to join us? Me, and the kids?”

Whatever Kallus had been expecting, it wasn’t this. 

He blinks, looking at the other man standing before him. There is Kanan Jarrus: open and honest, with his invitational hand extended, welcoming IRS Agent Kallus to come and join in with the rest of the family. To what, he has no particular idea; but it doesn’t really matter that much either. It’s such a kind, selfless gesture that it nearly knocks the wind from his chest, and Kallus is grateful for the other man’s lack of eyesight so that he cannot see the guilt on his face. 

_I don’t deserve this._

“The kids?” he asks. “You mean those fine young adults who live here with you?” He crosses the room, clapping a hand into Kanan’s open one. The other man chuckles, with the lines of his tanned, dusty face wrinkling around his milky-white eyes. ( _He wishes that he could return the gesture)._ “Sure, Mr. Jarrus. Thank you. That’s mighty generous.” 

The owner of _Ghost Town_ ranch laughs. He shakes his head. 

“It’s _Kanan,”_ he emphasizes again. “I thought you’d been around here long enough to get that?” shaking Kallus’ hand in his, he drops them and gestures back towards the door. “Ezra, ‘Bine and I still need to wash up, but then we’ll get ready to head on out. If you want to go down to the fridge and pack a few cold ones, I wouldn’t stop ya.” 

The friendly, familiar twang of his voice at the end of his sentence makes something stir within Kallus’ mind. And then, before he can stop himself, he is asking. 

“What about Zeb? Isn’t he coming with us?” 

Again, Kallus is grateful that Kanan cannot see him. The other man cannot see the way that his pale skin flushes, nor the way that he chews down on his lip in embarrassment. _Idiot!_ He thinks, recounting his earlier words to Sabine about Zeb. _I have to stop acting so eager like this. If I keep showing interest in Garazeb, I’m going to give them all of the wrong ideas._ And now, perhaps more than ever, such an ‘idea’ came with high costs. 

Kanan grins. 

“Oh, we’ll see Zeb there, alright,” he replies, turning away towards the door. “But he’s competing, not sitting with us. We’re going into town for the rodeo championship--tonight’s the final round for our county fair. Our Zeb is one of the most well-loved contenders.” Kanan turns, glancing back at him. “You’re not against a little bull-riding, are you, Agent Kallus?” 

He watches, speechless, as the other man departs. And he doesn’t regain his voice until _far_ too late to turn back.

* * *

  
  


The scent of buttered popcorn and freshly-turned earth greets Agent Kallus as he steps in the stadium. Row cool, stainless-steel seating rise above the outdoor arena, where high-powered lights cast brilliance upon the cowboys and animals working the ring. When he’d first stepped out of his roadster that evening in the parking lot, Kallus had been left with the strangest feeling of nervousness and butterflies-inside-of-the-stomach dread; but now that he is actually _here,_ he does not feel his angst any longer. The bold, raucous excitement of the arena is completely infectious. Kallus picks up a smile from a little boy wearing an oversized cowboy hat, and it only spans wider and wider across his face as he takes in more of the scene at the rodeo. 

“You like it?” Ezra asks, bobbing up and down excitedly next to him on his right. “Never seen something like this, have ya, city boy?” 

Kallus is in a good enough mood that he just grins and shakes his head in amusement at the young, blue-haired kid. “Nope,” he replies honestly. “I sure haven’t.” Allowing himself to be led by the crowd, Kallus drifts along with the spectres as they pass hotdog stands, on-wheel soda fountains, booths of freshly-spun candy floss, and even stick-horse stuffed animals. He watches with amusement as a little girl and her sisters go running past holding the pole in between their small legs, slapping their sides and making whinnying noises. He chuckles as he steps around a young couple shyly holding hands, and follows Kanan up into the rows of seating. 

“Ya’ll make sure and get us good seats,” Sabine instructs. “I’m going to get us some popcorn!” 

The young woman rushes away, her icy exterior melts a bit from sheer excitement. As Kallus watches her weaving in and out of the crowd with grace, he cannot help but feel a rush of affection for these unusual spectres.“You know what, Kanan?” he says, sitting down beside the _Ghost Town’_ s land owner. “I’m really glad that you asked me to come here. I had my doubts at first, but--this place has some good energy.” 

The other man smiles. “To be honest, I’m kind of surprised that you did. But I think that it was a good choice.”

Kallus doesn’t know what to say. He blinks at the other man awkwardly until Ezra jumps into the silence between them. “Yeah, you’re not such a stick in the mud after all, Kal! C’mon, let me teach you a few things.” He reaches up and wraps an arm around Kallus’ shoulder. “You see that long, narrow area near the gate? That’s called the chute. Critters hang out there until it’s time for the big event.” He turns in and waggles his eyebrows conspiratorially at Kallus, lowering his voice. “When it’s _Zeb’s_ turn, you’ll see him entering in from there.” 

Something lurches in Kallus’ gut. He stares at the boy’s knowing expression. “W-what--” 

“And check this out!” Ezra interrupts, releasing Kallus to point at a brightly-marked table with speakers and microphones. “That booth holds the judges. All the events are scored by a series of points and achievements. Our Zebby does _roughstock,_ you know, _”_ he says, drawing the word into a growl. “That means working with bucking and brawling bulls. It’s a pure act of strength.”

“Uhh, _yep_ ,” Kallus replies, sweating. _What is it that Zeb always says when in trouble? Karabast?_

The young cowboy’s cheshire grin suggests that he knows _exactly_ what kind of strain this is putting upon Kallus’s stress points. He leers at him, and the IRS agent draws back, certain that he is just about to face his untimely doom. This is the sudden moment when Sabine returns, carrying with her brown-paper bags of popcorn and a carrier of drinks. 

“ _Ezra,”_ she says, eyes narrowing into brown slits. “What exactly are you doing to Agent Kallus?” 

Surprised that the same kid who had lectured him earlier has just suddenly come to his rescue, Kallus gratefully scoots over and clears her a spot Sabine takes it, handing him one of the grease-soaked bags of popcorn as well as a tall, red-plastic cup of frothy, gold beer. “Thanks for that,” he mutters weakly, taking a long drag of the liquid. He almost instantly regrets it; coughing, he snorts out the watery, low-quality taste. 

“It’s just the standard,” Sabine says, trying not to laugh. “No fancy city IPA’s here.” 

Kallus winces a smile and takes another draft. _Doesn’t matter,_ he thinks to himself fervently. _If I’m going to survive this event, I’m going to need a_ **_hell_ ** _of a lot more alcohol than this._ Throwing his head back, he takes several long and drawn-out swallows. And when he places the cup down next to him empty, he sees Ezra watching him with wicked eyes. 

The first series of events are all what they call _timed._ Kallus watches with new, fresh understanding as Ezra and Sabine talk him through the events, narrating all of the high points to Kanan. He watches with more interest than he’d first expected when he’d watched the young people begin with a barrel race; it had been even more exciting, when the older and more seasoned members had jockeyed to complete the task within the fastest time frame. Kallus learned that there were special and specific roles for all of the people who helped out at the rodeo--whether they were competitors, set workers or animal handlers, there was always somebody knowledgeable about the show nearby and hard at work on the scene. 

By the end of the first half of events, Kallus found himself actually clapping and cheering along with the crowd as the rodeo victors received their rewards. 

“That die-down roping was so impressive!” he says to Sabine, watching the pair of women stepping up on the tall, blue podium to receive their team award. “It’s amazing to me that nobody--horse or human--has broken an ankle yet. Or their _neck_!” he shakes his head. “You’d think that there would be far more injuries when it comes to these kind of rough events.” 

She nods. “You’re right. People make whole careers out of this. It takes a whole lot of time, talent and effort.” She looks at him with a sly grin. “But we haven’t even _started_ with the rough stuff yet. Hang on to your horses, Agent Kallus: here comes the roughstock.” 

Next up begin the second half of events. Right away, Kallus can see the appeal: the first series, bareback riding, is a display of rippling muscles, power and talent. With new interest, he leans forward to watch the competitors as they ride out the furious motion of the animals, urged on in their bucking with what Ezra calls a flank-strap. He finds himself watching the way that the athlete’s thighs and hips grasp onto their mounts, seeking to find a point of balance and that fluid motion. _Garazeb could probably do that,_ he thinks, watching the series of professionals work. _Riding bareback takes strength. But I think he could handle it._

The saddled-up bronc riding came next, followed by the first round of steer wrestling. 

If there was an event to make Kallus think about how Zeb might handle it, it was _definitely_ the might of the second. With an open mouth, he watches as a duo of riders follow a kicking cattle out of the chute. One of them--the hazer--stays mounted upon their horse, and directs the steer towards the other rider. The other person, however--the wrestler--times their movements and leaps off the horse. The first time he watches a man leap and grab a bull down by the horns, struggling with the sheer force power and gravity, all he can think of is Garazeb Orrelios. How _easy_ he might make it look, with his rippling and powerful muscles. How very _good_ he might be at it, grasping the animal with his bare hands. 

“Too easy,” a voice says near his ear. 

Kallus startles, turning to see young Ezra again watching him again. The boy has that sneaky smirk back on his face, and his eyes are dancing with humor “Our Zeb mastered that class _way_ before the others. Now, he’s just out here for the _bulls_. They’re the only thing that can really challenge him anymore.” Tongue sticking to his dry, thirsty mouth, Kallus nods. He does not trust himself to answer. 

Of _course_ Garazeb would be in the last group of bull riders.

At this point, Kallus cannot remember the number of beers that he’s consumed; all he knows is that he has, quite possibly, sweated out each and every one of them _(and then some)._ He is standing with the others, light-headed and anxious, nails digging into his palms, when the _Ghost Town’s_ largest cowboy finally comes into view. Even from a distance, Zeb is unmistakable. The man is grinning widely from behind his dark, curling beard, and his face holds an expression of utter and total confidence. And, _oh,_ Alexsandr Kallus knows now that he is _well_ in for it: he can feel his stomach _lurching_ with delight as the big, burly man straddles the fence, his jeans pulling tightly over his ass; he can feel his heart _thundering_ within his chest, as Zeb throws his head back and laughs at the word of his hazer; he can feel his temperature _rising_ on his face as the man turns and looks through the crowd towards them, giving his family _(and Kallus)_ a cheeky, two-fingered salute. 

Kallus _sweats._

“So, here’s what you need to know, Kal,” Ezra says over the ringing in his ear. It seems as though he has shifted places with Sabine, so that he can instruct _(harass)_ the IRS agent further. “For the first eight seconds, the rider’s got to keep one hand on the ropes and one hand in the air. No slaps--” he makes a swinging gesture, “and no falling, or you’re disqualified.” He smiles. “Otherwise, it’s pretty simple: both the bull and the rider get up to 25 points from each of the judges. They’re looking for rider ability and control, and bull challenge and rhythm. Everybody’s shooting for the best score out of 100. Zebby usually brings home a win if he scores in the 80’s.”

Kallus nods, trying to keep his spinning head focused. He’s never been all that good with counting and numbers. It’s _far_ worse now, as he watches the ring. Watches _Zeb._

“Got any questions?” 

He stares at the kid, wondering if he should ask the smirking teenager about what is really on his mind, and to see if they are on the same page as his intuition hints. _What makes you so certain that I’m into your brother?_ he wants to shout at Ezra, both needing and afraid of the answer. _And why are you so goddamn cocky about it? I know that he’s unavailable! I saw his boyfriend! But with all of your teasing and nonsense, it’s almost as if you think that I have an actual chance with your brother--_

The sound of a loud, blaring bullhorn calls his attention. 

It is perhaps the most beautiful, _dangerous_ thing that Alexsandr Kallus has ever seen. Unaware that he had been holding his breath, he inhales sharply as Zeb and his mount explode from the chute and into the ring. At first, his eyes ache from watching the flurry of action: the massive, red-coated steer is twisting and bucking, shifting directions as wildly as it kicks into the air. Clouds of dirt rise like smoke around the pair of them, slightly obscuring Kallus’ view; but what he _can_ see is the smooth, rippling motion of several tons of organic muscle, paralleled only by the grace of the denim-clad man riding atop him. 

Time seems to slow down as he watches the other man. 

One of Zeb’s long, sun-tanned arms is thrown back in the air, swaying above him and giving him balance. Below him, the animal churns like the sea, writhing and bucking, leaping and twisting. But he appears unafraid: Zeb’s heavy, dark eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, and his thick, plush lips are puckered into a smooth ring of focus. Kallus feels the pressure within his chest rising as he watches a tongue sweeping out from those lips. He feels his knees softening as he watches the inhales and exhales of his billowed chest, sucking in air to keep him steady. He feels himself growing _hard,_ flooding into aching fullness, as he watches Zeb’s thick thighs clench and his powerful hips sway. 

And then, it’s over: the steer gives a mighty bellow and _kick,_ unseating Garazeb from its back. 

As the noise of celebration explodes around him, Kallus lurches away towards the rail. Sabine gives him a curious look, and he says over his shoulder in a departing, quick apology, “S-sorry. Think I had one too many to drink!” He stumbles just slightly--not even performativity--and makes his way down the stadium stars.

 _Hurry,_ Kallus thinks, blindly pushing his way through the crowds towards. _Get some air. Find a bathroom. Find yourself some space--_

Eyes on the ground, he doesn’t see the familiar face until he runs into him. “Oh?” asks a red-haired, cheerful-sounding man. Kallus looks up to see the horribly-familiar face of the figure who had grasped at Zeb from behind the doorway, working his painted fingernails into the man’s denim jacket.

“ _OH!”_ he says, raising his eyebrows. “Well, if it isn’t our friend the _secret agent!_ Hello again, handsome!” 

Kallus backpedals, putting as much space between himself and the rhinestone-studded cowboy as he can possibly manage. “Sorry,” he says, raising his hands. He does not want to deal with _any_ of this. “I didn’t see you there. Headed for the bathroom.” When he glances up, he sees a look of mild concern on the other man’s face. He _is_ handsome--Kallus can admit that--but he has far too much going on with his bright-pink harness of leather. 

“Roy,” the other man says, holding out a hand. “Bathrooms, huh? You’re going the wrong way.” 

Kallus doesn’t bother to receive the gesture. Turning and fleeing from the spot, he makes for the opposite direction of his tracks. He thinks that he hears the other man say something behind him, but he’s not sure what that is. Right now, he doesn’t _care._ He does not want to think about _Zeb,_ or about who Zeb _fucks,_ or about the way that Zeb rides on a bull like he’d be the best fuck of Kallus’ entire, goddamn _life._

 _“Fuck,”_ he snarls, kicking his way into the outhouse stall. 

Unzipping his trousers, he hurriedly releases himself to the air. Kallus is still hard; even after that sudden, upsetting encounter. He closes his eyes, ignoring the lewdly-marked glory hole and leaning one hand over his head. _One quick one,_ he tells himself, swearing that this will get Zeb out of his head.

_I’ll take care of this here, and leave it behind me._

Supporting himself against the wall, groaning into the thought of sitting astride Garazeb’s bucking hips and riding out his passion, he becomes evermore certain that this is a _lie_. 

* * *

  
  
  
  



	10. Art by Sempaiko: Ride 'Em, Cowboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It turns out that his second ride of the evening was to be far more pleasurable than his first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "RIDE 'EM, COWBOY." Make sure to check out Sempaiko's other artwork at her [Tumblr](https://sempaiko.tumblr.com)! She gave me the okay to post this here. Please remember to always check with artists for permission before posting their artwork anywhere. Thank you!


	11. Hera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hera finds something in common with Kallus. She uses her leverage to take a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for conflict and confrontation.

* * *

**_Hera_ **

* * *

The harsh, heady smell of diesel fuel wafts through the cool shadows of the shop. 

It is late afternoon, with sunshine streaming into the open garage doors of her automobile repair station, and Hera Syndulla is lying on her back underneath her favorite vehicle. Underneath her nails, layers of grease, dust and grime have gathered into a compact crescent; on top of her skin, streaks of oil darker than even her complexion cover her like a coat of gritty frosting. She is wearing her favorite blue-jean coveralls: a dark-washed denim, well-loved and covered with countless odd pockets. Around her head, holding back her thick weave of braids, she wears her green bandana and protective goggles. 

It is nearly the _perfect_ afternoon; perfect, that is, until someone unwelcome interrupts her work. 

Hera has almost fully completed today’s repairs when a shadow falls over the hood of her car. “Good afternoon, Ms. Syndulla,” the smooth, elegant voice of IRS Agent Kallus greets. “I was wondering if you might--” but he stops short in his usual pattern of speech, boots halting and holding in the spinning dust. “ _Hera._ Is--is _this_ a Thunderbolt?!” he asks, sounding breathless. 

Surprised, she walks her heels out from beneath the vehicle. 

Agent Kallus is standing there, leaning over her emerald-green car with a look of wide-eyed fascination. He seems to have forgotten his professional approach mid-step, and is all but lost in rapture as he gazes upon the antique muscle car. As his eyes flick over the recently-refreshed paint job, a look of what must be _longing_ crosses over his face. It’s a tug in the corner of his _(as Zeb would say, ‘too pretty’)_ lips. It’s a strange, happy glitter in those amber eyes. 

“Yeah,” she replies, both amused by and annoyed at his strange presence. “It’s a Ford Fairlane Thunderbolt.” 

“ _Fascinating!”_ The man leans closer, curiosity clearly expressed on his face. He holds his clipboard against his chest, and seems to be breathing with a heavier pace. When he speaks again, Hera does not hear the performative, polished tone in his voice for once; instead, Kallus actually seems to hold some genuine interest in the subject. 

“Only a one-year production, right?” he asks, glancing at her for confirmation. “Made in 1964. Limited quantity, only about one-hundred models total?” 

Despite herself, Hera lifts an appraising eyebrow. “Wow. You really know your vehicles, huh?” She watches the IRS Agent inspecting the vehicle in front of him, growing more and more excitable by the minute. He shifts the clipboard in his hands restlessly, then, turns and sets it behind him on the floor so that he might look at her vehicle all the better. 

“Know them,” the man replies, still gazing enraptured at the Thunderbolt, “ _love_ them.” 

He looks up, eyes glinting with boyish excitement. “There was a time when I was considering becoming an automobile mechanic, or an engineer. Wasn’t quite what my parents had in mind for my talents, though, so…” he trails off, eyes dimming slightly. Then, shaking himself, his focus returns. “Anyhow: _yes._ Machines are my passion.” He steps back, preparing to make a full circle around the car. “Studying them, fixing them, acquiring them for my collection.” He pauses to inspect the fiberglass hood. “I wasn’t always able to afford it, however. When I was a student, I’d use my lunch breaks to stop by the local repair shop and try my hands at learning the trade. I’ve come a long way since becoming an agent."

He shoots her a grin, and Hera frowns. It’s hard for her to picture the posh man in a grease-stained pair of coveralls. Although perhaps now, after time with the spectres…

“My preference is super cars, _obviously,”_ Kallus says, waving a hand in the air. The gesture directs her attention back towards the entrance of the shop, where he’d pulled up in his ludicrously expensive roadster before wandering in. “Because for everyday and travel uses, it’s much more comfortable than a drag racer. However, I wouldn’t say no to a _fine_ vehicle like this Thunderbolt...or for anything from that time-frame of Fords, really.” 

It’s a charming backstory--and listening to him is illuminating about his character--but Hera Syndulla is still not convinced. 

As far as she can tell, the IRS investigative agent is a snake: a predator, lying in wait until the right moment presents itself for him to strike. _That’s not the kind of person I want around my family,_ she thinks, watching him coo and sigh over the V8 engine. _And it’s going to take more than a little shared interest to show me that he’s not a threat._

Sitting up and brushing the dust from her shoulders, she takes a good look at Alexsandr Kallus. 

_He’s wearing Zeb’s hat again,_ she notes, _and this time, he’s got some kind of practical jeans along with those boots. No more of that suit and those stupid, Italian brogues._ Looking at him critically, she can see why Garazeb thinks he’s so pretty: that fair, freckled skin; those strong, clear-cut features; the well-groomed mutton chops; and all of that sun-gold, sandy-blonde hair, falling today in loose strands in front of his face. _Another day at the ranch,_ she thinks to herself, _and another day where he’s a little more casual._

For all that she knows, this whole presentation could be a facade; and she’s not going to fall for it like the rest of them. 

Because, for some reason that still escapes her, the Spectres of Kanan’s ranch seem to have taken this troublesome man under their wing. Yesterday, Kanan and the kids had actually taken him out along with them to the rodeo--not to mention earlier in that week when, after settling some sort of pissing match with the other man, he’d gone to sleep wearing Zeb’s clothes. 

_What’s it about you,_ she wonders, narrowing her eyes behind the horn-rimmed, emerald eyeglasses, _that makes you so special?_ She looks the man up and down. _What is it about you that makes even Kanan Jarrus want to open his arms to you, despite everything?_ ****

Kallus leans around the hood to make eye-contact with her. 

“Might you allow me to take a look at the interior?” he asks, eyes far too pleading and young for a man of his size. “This car is in _excellent_ condition. I can hardly believe that you’ve managed to track down one of these--let alone make the _purchase_.” He runs a hand lovingly over the door handle. “I can only imagine how it sounds when it runs...”

 _That_ makes her smile. Hera thinks of Kallus’ flamboyant, chrome-colored roadster, paired with that obnoxiously loud, feral engine. 

“Agent Kallus: it _purrs,”_ she replies smugly, kneeling and making her way up to standing. Looking down at the vehicle, she feels a swell of pride. Yes: it really _is_ an admirable machine. Ever since she’d acquired it for her first race, she’s maintained it with only the very best care. Now, due to the rarity of its make and model, the car has become like a priceless treasure. “Ah sure, why not. Hop in.”

_“Excellent!”_

The childlike pleasure upon the man’s face could not begin to be fabricated. Hera feels as though she is watching an entirely new person as Kallus situates himself on the passenger side, wriggling with excitement and running his hands over the expanse of the dash. With more warmth than she’d felt towards the man yet, she climbs into the vehicle with him on the driver’s side. “It rides like the Galaxie,” she says, referencing another model of a similar make from that decade, “but this one’s shorter. Lighter, and faster.” 

“And not any _less_ in the slightest!” Kallus affirms. He pats the car affectionately. “It’s slim, sleek and airtight. Not even a _radio_ in here to hold you down!” He gestures to the dashboard. 

“Nope,” Hera smiles--and _means_ it _._ It’s not often that she finds herself in the company of anyone with such a high level of knowledge and experience about auto mechanics. Clearly, Kallus is not faking this. “That’s one of the trademarks of the ‘Bolt. Dropped everything that could possibly add extra weight: no radio, sun visors, heaters, floor mats, passenger-side wipers…” she trails off, thinking about one of her early races. “You wouldn’t believe how fast this baby goes. Back when I first started racing? Nobody could even _touch_ where we were at.” 

Kallus gets a look of sheer wonder on his face. When he recovers from the moment of joy, he asks her: “So. You _were_ into drag racing at one point?” 

She grins, flashing him a confident smile. “Oh, kid. You have no _idea_ how much time I spent drag racing during the summers!” As the agent’s face morphs into admiration, she wishes that she had something with her to take a picture. It would be nice to show Garazeb the wide-open look on his face. It makes him look even _more_ handsome. “Back in the day, you couldn’t even try to get me off the street. I was winning every race that I entered. In fact, that’s how Kanan and I got the money to buy this ranch in the first place.” 

She stops, realizing that they have suddenly crossed into dangerous territory. _Too close. Too personal._

Agent Kallus seems to pause, too. A slight shadow passes over his eyes; his features, young and cheerful, are slightly transformed by an air of concern. However, he seems to shake these things mostly off after a moment. It is as though he is not ready yet to return to that reality: the one where he is an investigative agent, trying to drag them off of their land. 

“Yeah? So you never intended to do three-legged goat rehab, or whatever that is?” 

Hera snorts in amusement. “No. Animal therapy was always Kanan’s dream. Chopper’s just always been with me.” She smiles fondly, thinking of holding the wobbly-legged, cross-eyed kid in her arms the first time. “We go _way_ back, Chop and I. At one time, he even had all of those legs on him, the wretched thing!” 

The IRS agent laughs, and then the amusement fades from his face. In the long, tense silence that follows, Hera feels as though they are sizing each other up. 

As she stares at the other man, she can feel the fine, dark hair prickling as it rises upon her skin. In this moment, this breach of the professional barriers, she can see how things might possibly begin to change between them--from an IRS agent as a dangerous antagonist tot he spectres, to the person who is familiar and edging towards friends. And here knows that _now_ is the moment where that opportunity could happen; it would be only natural for her to share her story (and Chopper’s, and maybe even Kanan’s). If she trusted the man, this would be a time where she could tell him of their dreams: of how she and Kanan Jarrus had conjured a dream to create a safe haven for other social misfits like themselves, providing a house and home while a the strange, scattered crew was woven into a new, working family. If she trusted Kallus, this is when she’d share her dream of helping convicted felons like Zeb and Ezra create new, record-clean lives on the cattle ranch under the open, clear sky. She’d share all of the joys and sorrows of wanting to be a mother, and of having that impossible wish come true when she’d been able to mentor someone like Sabine. She’d lament about all of the sweat, blood and tears it had taken to pay off the ranch when both she and Kanan had come from nothing. 

But she doesn’t trust him. And so, she will not. 

Hera tightens her hands on the wheel. _That would make my family vulnerable,_ she thinks, clenching her teeth. _That would be taking a risk that I will not make._ Because Agent Kallus is still, quite possibly, their enemy in all of this. Because she doesn’t know how and when this information will be turned and used against them; how it may become the very thing that the IRS agent exploits to take away their hard-won freedom. 

Doubling down on her resolve, Hera Syndulla shifts her hands on the wheel. 

“You know what?” she asks Kallus, looking up and out at the wilderness landscape before them. “I’m feeling a little bit restless today. What would you say to us going for a drive?” When she turns and looks at the man, she sees that his mouth has fallen open in delight. _If we were not on opposite sides,_ she thinks, _this could even be fun._ “Yeah. It’s been too long since I’ve seen how fast this bad boy can drive. Plus--” she pats the wheel, “I gotta test out all of my repairs.”

Kallus makes an excited, eager sputtering noise. 

_“YES!”_ He replies, leaning back in the squeaking, dark leather and buckling himself into the seat. “Yes! I mean--” he takes off his hat, runs a hand through his sandy hair. Holding it nervously between two hands, he gives her that pleading, desperate look again. As if he has only just realized how out of sorts he has been. “But only if you are certain that it’s okay with you, ma’am?” 

Hera sighs. _What else am I going to do?_ She thinks, reaching into one of her grease-stained pockets for the key. _It’s as good as any way to throw you off the chase._

“I’m offering, aren’t I?” she asks, shifting through the knife-shaped key-holder to find the appropriate object. “Now, you just hold on to your horses, Agent Kallus,” she instructs. “You might think that you have some experience with sporty little roadsters, but I’m going to show you how fast a good car can _really_ move.” 

“Wonderful! Thank you!” 

Hera nods. _And then,_ she thinks to herself, _you’re going to tell me all about why it is that you were really sent here. You’re going to spill all of those nasty intentions. You’re going to be honest with me--not only about what you plan to do with our ranch, but your machinations on Garazeb’s heart._ All of this, she decides, is long overdue for a little pressure. 

Hand on the wheel, she turns the ignition. 

* * *

Wind whips across Hera’s relaxed, smiling face, leaving behind the burn of pure _speed._ All around them, the grey-gold of the open plateau races by. Where they drive in short bursts of acceleration, the land is flat and the short-cropped grass releases curls of dust. Further west, though, one can see how the landscape transforms into the rounded foothills of the striped mountains: swirling grey, red and blue, colored by leftover mineral deposits from different ages. She admires them from afar, enjoying the way that the peaks of the Badlands seem to stand still while the immediate scenery outside the window rushes by. 

Next to her, Agent Kallus sits in the reclined passenger seat. 

The man does not look comfortable; and yet, he does not look terrified, either. His mouth is set in a determined, firm line, and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. He’s clinging white-knucled with both hands upon his seatbelt, and he’s angled himself out of the way of the blasting air from his rolled-down window. From that vantage point, he’s opted to watch the racing landscape go by without the possibility of flying rocks. 

Hera doesn’t blame him. Not everybody is equipped to handle acceleration like this. 

“Don’t hurl on my upholstery,” she teases, giving the agent a side-eye. “It’s vintage, you know.” The watery, high-effort smile that Kallus gives her in return is gratifying. _I don’t have to like you,_ she thinks, returning her gaze to the whirling landscape in front of them. _But right now, you’re making it difficult not to._ “First time flying in a unit like this?” 

Possibly keeping his mouth shut upon her request, Kallus nods eagerly.

Once again, he is wild-eyed and excitable. In the passenger seat of the muscle car, he’s not the put-together, posh agent out to hunt them--but rather, a regular, messed-up man, with his messed-up hair falling loose on his face, and a spark of awkward enjoyment in his eyes. _You’re a strange one,_ Hera thinks, easing up on the gas for just a moment. _At one moment, distant and dangerous; at another, someone who makes me feel almost...sympathetic for your plight. Because, somehow, you clearly don’t want the life that you’re living._

Hera accelerates into a turn. She hears Kallus gasp as the Thunderbolt hits lurches into the air. When she lands it smoothly and perfectly, _of course,_ the man breaks into a shaky grin. 

_Why would you commit to living a life that harms others?_ She wonders, fiddling with her thumbs on the wheel. _Clearly, you’re not some kind of monster. But you’re also not choosing to be in a career that serves the needs of the most vulnerable._ She turns the car sharply again, this time making the cut-loose agent actually whoop. _I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want you to hurt my family, either._

The sight of the shop is returning into view. Hera had taken Agent Kallus out for nearly an hour, jumping and skirting along the plains. At first, he had been leaning forward with eagerness; but then, after seeing that she meant business, he’d sat back and held on for his dear life. Hera had enjoyed every last minute of it--it’s true, it’s been too long since she’d been out and pulling this fast--but she dreads what’s going to come next. Back at the shop, she’s going to interrogate Kallus; and, hopefully, she will catch him unexpectedly enough that he will be honest. 

_This is either going to make things easier for us,_ she thinks, pumping on the breaks, _or just that much worse._

Agent Kallus is grinning from ear to ear when they finally roll back into the shop. He’d removed Zeb’s purple cowboy hat, and the man’s sandy hair has been tugged out and tossed every which-way. There is a rose to his cheeks from excitement and pleasure, and he is panting just slightly from the effort of clinging onto the sides of the vehicle. 

“ _That,”_ he says, reaching up and running a hand through his hair, “was _exhilarating!”_ turning to Hera, he flashes her a genuine smile. “Thank you, Hera!” 

Inclining her head, Hera maneuvers them into the shop’s garage. “No problem, Kallus,” she says, shifting the vehicle into a parking position. “Like I said: it’s not every day that I get to share time with a fellow enthusiast.” She looks out from the front of the car, debating on whether or not they should get out for the impending conversation. “Your appreciation for the craft is enjoyable, to say the least.” 

Kallus looks over at her, grinning. When he sees that her face has settled into something more serious, the smile slowly slides off of his. 

“Hera?” She sighs and leans back in her seat. Unbuckling, she shifts her posture so that she can look directly at Kallus. As if in anticipation of what is to come, the man cringes. “Uhm, my apologies? I feel as though I might have done something wrong--” 

She waves a hand, cutting him off. 

“--Not what you _have_ done,” she says, voice firm and directive. “But what you _might_ do. What you have _planned.”_ She watches the glimmer in the man’s eyes fade. In seconds, his whole expression hardens, and something closes off behind his gaze. “Agent Kallus, this has been fun and all, but I haven’t forgotten why you are here: you’re trying to take away the ranch. You’re here to dig up all the dirt that you can, so that you can dump us out like hot trash.” 

His eyes narrow, and an unpleasant angle twists on his mouth. 

“I know how this whole thing works,” Hera says. “I worked for a government agency once, too. You go into it thinking that it’s going to be all sunshine and rainbows, and that you’ll get to work on behalf of the little man.” She narrows her eyes. “But then you learn. You see that people make deals under the table. You see that people _own_ each other--their interests, their loyalty, by throwing piles of money around. You hear whispers that all of the things that you stand for are actually _playing cards_ , used by people with authority that outstrips yours, and who are just trying to line their own, overfull pockets.” 

There is no mistaking it now: Agent Kallus is _mad._ His shoulders are rigid, and that flush has spread from a pleasant pink in his cheeks to a full-faced burgundy red. 

“I understand that you were sent here to do a job. And I respect that you probably joined up with good intentions in the first place. But don’t try to convince me--or _anyone_ else--that you’re here because you want to help us.” She lowers her voice. “You’re here to try and unearth something on Kanan. And if you try and do that to take our land, so help me…” she trails off, letting the threat linger. “...there’s nowhere that you could run to stay safe.” 

Agent Kallus is glaring at her. His hands are balled into fists, and his face wears an ugly expression. 

“Think you know everything about me, do you?” He snaps. “Think you know what’s going on inside of my head? That you _‘know all my secrets’_ ? That I’m here to _‘expose yours’_ ?” He reaches down to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Well, I have news for you: _some_ of us, Ms. Hera Syndulla, have a stronger moral compass than just doing _whatever suits us_ in the moment _._ You may have evaded any kind of legal prosecution or this long; but don’t worry: justice will have its way in the end.” 

By this time, his chest is heaving again. They are _both_ glaring openly at each other now. 

Hera feels a coil of anxiety shift in her belly. _Does he know?_ She wonders, thinking of all of the things she’s carefully buried. _Did he somehow learn about the rebel cells? Does he_ **_really_ ** _know that I come from a family of terrorist, anti-establishment leaders?_ At one time, keeping this information hidden away had cost her nearly everything: a job, a life, a family, a home. But then she’d found Caleb Dume; and, together, they’d been able to start a new life; to outsmart the system, and walk away, free. But now, Agent Kallus is threatening the life that they’d built together. Now, he is poised to unearth all of that. 

“What do I have to do,” Hera asks, keeping her voice calm, “in order to make you just go away?” 

This must not have been what the investigative agent was expecting. He sits back in his seat, blinking at her with the look of someone who is unsettled. A look of discomfort crosses his face, and then, it disappears behind that professional mask. Agent Kallus reaches up, smoothing his hair back and tucking it beneath the shadow of purple. He seems to be thinking. 

“Honestly?” he asks, golden eyes flicking down between them. “I don’t know.” 

This is not what she had expected, either. Hera watches him, trying to gauge his reaction. The man seems to be wrestling with something internally after his outburst. In one moment, his eyes are crinkling with lines of frustration; in another, they are weakening and his mouth is softening, as though he might actually well up and cry. She would find it all terribly, sadly fascinating--if he wasn’t so dangerous to her family right now. 

“...Look,” Hera says, watching him closely. “I don’t trust you. And you don’t trust me.” 

Kallus snorts. His face has lost most of its anger now, and it seems to be twisting back internally instead. If she’s right, Hera thinks that she recognizes the signs of it: she’s kept that kind of self-hatred and loathing inside of her since the accident and Kanan’s permanent blindness. Seeing it there, on his face, she finds herself with lingering feelings of doubt about his character. 

“But if we can just be transparent with each other, then perhaps this can all go better than expected.” 

The agent looks up. Behind that professional mask, his eyes are almost unreadable; _almost._ In his eyes, she can see the truth of her accusations written there: that, _yes,_ he is here for less than admirable reasons; that, _yes,_ he has been caught by a formidable foe while on the prowl. But also, that, _yes,_ he is aware of his unjust system; and that, _yes,_ he is feeling divided. That he is still unsure how to act, while he is being torn by loyalties to both sides. 

If she is correct in her reading of him-- _and she usually is--_ Kallus’ choice could go either way. And, she hopes, truly, that he makes the right one. At least, for _his_ sake. 

“... _Transparent,_ ” Kallus finally replies, voice low and soft. He rubs a pointer-finger and thumb together. “You’d prefer for me to be honest about my tools and intentions?” He asks. “That we go directly at this, and not dance around the subject with eloquent words any longer? That I just put all of my cards on the table, in exchange for your honesty as well?” 

“That’s what I’m suggesting,” Hera replies.

She’s watching him carefully. Agent Kallus sighs. He looks up finally, making steady and burning eye-contact with her. When he speaks, he sounds cautious, yet determined. “Then tell me about the _Honor Guard_ ,” he says, naming the group behind Zeb’s incarceration. “Tell me about the location of oil on this land. The history, the pricing. And then, you can tell me...” he says, his voice growing soft, “...all about your connections to the _Karthakk Group_.” 

That list--that _name--_ makes her blood run cold.

Hera stares back at Kallus. _It’s so much worse than I ever thought,_ she thinks, her heart pounding. _Not only does he know about Zeb and the kids, but he knows about_ **_me_ ** _. As for...oil?_ Her head works rapidly, trying to place it. _On our land? Kanan never said...I had no idea…_ She looks at him, gaze intense and blazing. **_That_ ** _must be the real reason why he’s here. That’s why he’s still managed to dig everything up, even after all of my bribes and bloodwork._ Her stomach churns. _But if that’s what he wants, he’s never going to believe that we know nothing about it. And if that’s why he’s here...he won’t stop, until he’s taken away every bit of our land._

The silence between them grows. Hera cannot look away from his face, and the flat coldness that has transformed his eyes. 

_Worse. This has definitely made everything worse._ Cursing herself for accelerating the pressure, Hera searches her mind for what to do. If nobody would come looking for Kallus, she could dispose of him right then and there. But with his rank and status, somebody would _surely_ come looking for him. And even with all of these dangerous revelations, she cannot be sure that she could earn the forgiveness of Garazeb Orrelios. Or Kanan, for that matter. 

Screwing up her determination, and steeling herself to live into the life of non-violence and tranquility to which she and Caleb had once committed themselves, she makes her decision.

“Alright, Agent Kallus,” she says, voice betraying none of her concern. “I’ll tell you everything that you want to know. About Zeb, about me; all of it. Even the land. And _then--_ ” she inhales, exhales deeply, “--you will return to your fancy car at the ranch, and you’ll leave this place. And you’ll _never_ come back.” She adds midnight to her tone. “Not you, nor anyone else.” 

“Agreed,” he answers. 

Hera Syndulla inhales deeply. She knows that revealing this information about her family is a foolish decision-- _but what choice does she have?_ Either Agent Kallus will go now take the information that he has rooted up and almost certainly use it against them, or, she can make a play to take back control into her own hands. All that she can hope for is that he caves to the right decision; that he makes good on his honor. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “Looks like we’re going for another drive. Buckle in, Agent Kallus. We wouldn’t want you suddenly breaking your neck...” 

* * *

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that Hera has every right to be skeptical of Kallus and his motivations. At this point of the story, he still has villainous intentions, no matter how he feels about Zeb. Man's going to have to make a choice to do better and be better for things to GET better.


	12. Garazeb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus makes a stupid decision. Zeb goes on a mission to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are really heating up as we approach Bahryn! Expect some spiciness in this chapter and the next!

* * *

**_Garazeb_ **

* * *

Zeb is helping Sabine circle the last of the herd back into the pasture when he sees Ezra Bridger rapidly approaching on horseback. 

It’s late the golden hours of afternoon, and the August sunshine glows on the copper-red pelts of angus cattle herd. They’d made a long day of it, out on the range: one of the ornerier studs had picked a loud fight that morning, and he’d scattered and set off some of the younger bulls. The livestock had separated to opposite ends of the paddock--and one them even figured out a way to squeeze out from one of the broken-down fences. So the result was a _long_ day of tracking down and reigning in animals; and, by the look of things, Ezra Bridger is about to make it just that much _longer_. He is coming towards them at a full-tilt gallop, holding onto his black cowboy hat with one hand. 

“Sup, partner?” Sabine calls, slapping a hand on her thigh in greeting. “You look like you’re on the run from the law again!” 

Ezra shakes his head, gasping for breath. He raises a finger to pause any questions as he reigns in his stallion, black and dark as deep space. After finally catching his breath, he wheezes out some unexpected words. “It’s--it’s _Kallus,”_ he says, taking off his hat and wiping at his tanned brow. “That stupid IRS agent has gone and done something so dumb that he might need our help.” 

Garazeb, who'd been sitting back in his saddle, quickly leans forward and spits out his stalk. 

“ _What?”_ he asks, looking around as if to catch sight of the golden-haired investigator nearby. “What do ya mean, _s_ _tupid and needs our help_?” He tries to make his voice sound casual _(if not slightly mocking),_ but knows that it is an utter failure. “Spit it out, Ezra. We got ourselves some kinda emergency here?” 

The younger cowboy shrugs widely. “Dunno how bad it is, really. Horse took off before I could even get to him.” He replaces his hat. “But given how bad the dude is at _riding…_ ” 

Zeb sees Ezra wither under his glance. The young man gulps.

“Okay, _okay!_ So maybe, _I might've_ goaded him on.” Twitching beneath Zeb’s increasingly stormy gaze, he rushes on. “Fine! So I was out on the training ring, cleaning up after Kanan left, and then _Kallus_ pulls up in that asshole car. He gets out to talk, starts _insulting_ the ranch, and we get into it with some words. After insulting me, I told him that I couldn’t take him seriously as a man--especially, not when he can’t even ride a goddamn _horse.”_

Resisting the urge to close his eyes in frustration, Zeb growls him on. “So?” 

“ _Soooo…”_ Ezra winces, caught somewhere between a laugh and an apology. “He. _Might’ve_ gone and jumped the fence. Grabbed a hold of Phoenix, and took off on her back full-tilt.” The boy’s eyes widen with alarm, so Zeb’s rage must be totally plain on his face. “She. _Uh._ Jumped the fence. Took the backroads towards Bahryn.” 

_“Karabast!”_ Zeb explodes, reaching up to grasp at his own hat. When he realizes that he’d already given it to Kallus, his hand closes over open air. “Ezra…” 

His younger brother pulls on the reigns, backing up his horse away from Zeb and out of punching range. “I know, I _know,_ it was a bad idea,” he replies, looking slightly embarrassed. “But he was making fun of all of us here at the _Ghost Town_ ranch! I couldn’t just let him go and abuse our sense of honor!” He ducks out of the way as Zeb turns his horse sharply in the direction from which Ezra had arrived. “Besides, I had no idea that he was going to be such a mindless idiot. _Nobody_ tries to ride Phoenix.”

Zeb growls, squeezing his thighs around Lira’s middle. 

“An’ that’s why he’s in _danger!”_ he replies, voice low and irritable as the Belgian accelerates into a trod. “Ezra, ya fucked this up royally. Now, you stay here and finish the chorin’ with ‘Bine; I’ll go and get my pickup. Better see if I can find him before nightfall.” 

Not waiting for a reply, he clicks Lira San into a trot, then a gallop. The field begins to blur into a wash of golden behind them. 

_Fucking kid!_ He thinks angrily to himself. _And that KALLUS!_ Swallowing his rage, Zeb leans down against his horse to move even faster. _Going and pulling something like that. After everything that Kanan and I told him about how dangerous it is out here, and how beginners should never just jump right on horses._ Thinking of how Kallus might be right now--either clinging to the back of the horse, his lovely head bobbing and swaying like a ragdoll; or perhaps, even worse, fallen and stranded--makes his stomach turn. _Fucking idiot!_

When he pulls up the house, Kanan Jarrus is already waiting there. 

“Ezra told me briefly before coming your way,” he says, taking Lira’s reigns as Zeb dismounts. “I’ve packed up the medical kit, and some dinner. Try to make it home before sunset if you can.” Garazeb feels a rush of gratitude and sorrow; in the man’s voice, he can hear the smothered fear. _He doesn’t want me to go out there._ “If you can’t, make sure you can text. Or, send up a flare.” 

Zeb reaches out, pulling his longtime best-friend into a hug. Kanan makes a soft noise of surprise, then, pats him several times on the back. 

“I’ll be just fine,” Zeb promises, releasing him. “And I’ll do my best to call.” He receives the army-green, rugged backpack from Kanan, then picks up the plastic cooler from where it rests on the dusty ground between them. “Thanks for all of this, man. S’always good to go prepared.” 

Kanan smiles sadly. “Hopefully,” he replies, “you won’t even need it.” 

Zeb gives the other man a hum of agreement, then shoulders the backpack and heads for his truck. It’s a dark-purple, dented rustbucket of a thing; nothing like one of the rigs that Hera would patch up, or like one of the swanky cars Kallus might drive. But it’s Garazeb’s, and it always has been. He’d bought it with a handful of cash as a teenage kid, and he’s kept it with him all these years ever since. 

“Let’s get goin’,” he mutters to himself, climbing into the pickup and setting in. 

He tosses the survival kit and cooler into the passenger side, then straps himself in with the reinforced buckle. Turning over the key in one of his large hands, he hears the diesel engine roar to life and sputter. _At least that’s one thing that we have in common,_ Zeb thinks, his mouth twisting into a momentary smile. _Loud-ass, obnoxious vehicle entrance._

But the smile doesn’t linger on his face for long. Once again, Zeb thinks of Agent Kallus: lying upon the ground somewhere foreign, pale head gleaming with bloodied sweat. 

“Karabast,” he mutters again, shifting into an off-road, 4-wheel setting. “Gotta get movin’. There’s no tellin’ _what_ kind of situation that city boy has got himself in.” Lurching forward within the vehicle, he pulls out from the drive and onto the gravel road. As the ranch races away behind him, glances out his rear-view window at Kanan and Lira’s retreating figures. “Hopefully, nothin’ that’s going to get me into too much trouble, either...” 

* * *

It’s nearly nightfall before he finds any sign of them. 

The soft, liquid sun has already faded behind the rolling shapes of the mountains. Left behind is the sot, just-before-evening glow, where the stars begin to scatter outside and spurt across the inky-black darkness. A slight chill is in the late-summer, early-autumn air, and the crickets and cicada bugs are humming loudly. As Zeb drives, he keeps his widows down: feeling the cool of it buffeting across his face, and inhaling the rich, deep smells of forested nighttime. _Going to get dangerous out here soon,_ Zeb thinks, reaching into his front shirt pocket to text Kanan. _Might have to get out the flashlight and look for some tracks._

Fortunately, that is right where he sees the telltale hoof-marked, turned up earth--and _less_ fortunate, the deep-brownish spatter of blood.

 _“Shit!”_ Zeb yelps, jerking his truck into a stalled position. 

Fumbling over the gears into park, Garazeb nearly kicks open the door. He hurries over to the torn-up area, squatting low to the earth and squinting so that he might have a better view. Sure enough, it _is_ blood; and most likely _human_. The way that it’s cooled and settled into the wet ground suggests an injury just within the hour--otherwise it might have already been soaked into the dry earth, or otherwise, been cleared up by animals. 

Zeb huffs a sigh of minor relief. He stands, scanning the area with night-widened eyes. _At least he’s likely not dead,_ he thinks, heart pounding. _Not enough blood-flow for that short of time._

Turning back to the car, Zeb gathers the backpack and straps it onto himself. He pulls out the powerful flashlight and flicks the switch, sending a wide beam upon the open ground. “Gotta be close,” he mutters to himself, following the dragging tracks of what looks like an injured leg. “Can’tve likely gone to far from here. Not if he’s injured.” 

He follows the staggering tracks into the low, pine-coated forest of the base of the hills. 

If it wasn’t such an unpleasant occasion, Garazeb Orrelios would be enjoying himself. He loves behind outside, and most especially, while he is alone. When he is out in the natural darkness like this, Zeb feels as though he is a deep, star-scattered galaxy bath: something in which he might absorb the silence for _decades,_ and drift away with the quietness of it all. Breathing in the sharp-sweet aroma of pine needles crushed underfoot, he opens his senses to the thick night around him. Off in the distance, he can hear the sounds of an owl hooting; closer by, he can hear the chitter of bats. Ducking his head beneath a low-hanging branch, Zeb catches sight of his trail again. It seems to grow deeper and more prominent in markings he makes his way down the incline. 

Finally, at the very bottom of a rocky hill, Zeb thinks that he has finally found him.

“Kallus?” 

The IRS agent is lying down upon the ground, hunched over and clutching at what appears to be his bent, twisted leg. Next to him, Zeb’s purple cowboy hat rests discarded; around his leg, a sodden flannel is tied and torn. In the glow of the moonlight, Agent Kallus looks even more bone-white and pale than normal. Perhaps, it is blood loss; perhaps he is really quite cold. 

Zeb doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. He slides down the hill, scattering rocks and pushing bushes aside to get to the fallen man. 

_“Kallus!”_ he says, dropping down to be at eye-level. Yes, it is Agent Kallus; but his face is none of the regular, put-together charm and suave professionalism. His eyes are wet and reddened from tears, and his face holds tracks from painful weeping. One of his eyes hangs heavy, swollen and bruised; over the right side of his lips, there is a long, bloody scratch that tugs at his smile. His golden-blond bangs are sweaty, and have been tugged loose from their usual order. Several of the threads fall down into his face, making him look all the more ragged. 

But that _smile._

“Zeb!” he coughs, reaching out to receive his open hand. His face is glowing with wonder and pleasure in the brightness of the moonlight. “Garazeb Orrelios, am I glad to see you!” When Zeb leans into the man to offer support, Kallus does not lean away. In fact, he rests his head against Zeb’s shoulder, sagging into his body with relief. Zeb grunts, taking on the full, heavy weight of him. “ _God._ I’m such an idiot!” Kallus says, voice shaking. “I don’t know what got into my head. I thought that I could do this. I thought that red stallion--” 

“ _Shhh,”_ Zeb interrupts him. He puts both hands on Kallus’ shoulders. “Take it easy.” 

Moving the man back, he inspects the makeshift bandages. Agent Kallus is obviously not somebody who has been trained in the survival or wilderness arts; he’s done badly, and the obvious breakage is starting to bleed again. “I’m gonna haveta take a look at this, okay?” he says, hands trailing down to frame either side of the man’s torn and blood-soaked denim pants. 

“Okay,” Kallus gulps, leaning slightly back. He hisses in pain as Zeb starts to unwrap the flannel. 

The cut and the breakage are _nasty._ If he had to guess, the man had not only been bucked off of the wild horse, but he’d been _kicked_ at, or _stomped_ on, in order to sustain such a fracture. It’s probably this bad because it’s a femur; and, very likely, it’s going to take some serious rehabilitation to recover. Judging by the angle that the bone is sticking out from the torn and rubble-covered flesh, this is going to be an injury that Kallus will not be able to just walk away from. 

“Hope that yer not some kinda quarterback in the local football league, mate,” Zeb jokes weakly. “Cause this one is a real bruiser.” 

Kallus makes a weak, snuffling sound. When Zeb looks up, he can see that the man is wiping tears of pain from his face. “Played some rec-league basketball once or twice,” he answers, voice sounding watery. “But I doubt that they’re hurting without me. So it’s pretty bad, then?” He sounds apprehensive. 

Zeb considers waffling, but knows that the man would know better. 

“Yup. It’s bad,” he confirms, cinching the flannel back together again. “Definitely broken, and probably some other stress fractures besides. When we get back to the truck, I’m probably gonna have to set it...and yer not gonna like that very much.” He shrugs apologetically. “But you’ll be able to walk again, promise. Maybe halveta add a rod in there for structure, but you should be able to put weight upon it with training.” 

“Thats… _terrible.”_ Kallus winces. His whole body seems to deflate. “I just...yeah. I...yeah.” For once, he seems out of smooth words to say. 

Zeb stares at him for a long while. He’d like to say that he’s not thinking about how the other man is somehow looking very _handsome--_ perhaps, even more so now that he’s been beat up a bit--and that he’s thinking of the best way to handle the situation without becoming even more infatuated. But, if he’s being honest, he’s overwhelmed right now with the relief of actually finding Kallus. And so he decides that it’s okay to go easy upon himself, given the strangeness of their whole situation, if his gaze seems to linger a little too long on the other man’s bearded face in the moonlight. 

“Right,” Zeb says, reaching into his pocket and thumbing a text to Kanan. “M’gonna have to carry ya for some of the way. Truck’s not far, but I can’t drive it down here.” 

When the other man makes a soft, uncomfortable groan, and Zeb rolls his eyes upwards towards the heavens. _That’s right. ‘Bine said he’s a potential bigot._ “Look, m’not gonna grope ya or anythin’, alright?” he assures him, walking over towards Kallus and kneeling down. “I’m just gonna carry ya back to the car. Nothing weird or anything. I’ll have ya put yer arms around my neck, and I’ll lift you right up in my arms.” He pats his forearms. “You just sit here, and lean yer weight over my shoulder. It’ll be over before ya know it.” 

The slight, cool evening breezes sweeps over Kallus’ loosened bangs. When he looks up at Zeb, his golden gaze boring into him, it is not the gaze of a bigot. In fact, it makes his stomach _twist_ with a nervous turn. “You don’t have to do that,” he replies softly. 

“What? Carry you?” 

“No. Make any kind of _those_ apologies.” 

Zeb blinks, staring back at the other man through the moon-broken darkness. If he’s not mistaken, he can see the telltale signs of a blush rising and creeping over his pale features. The surprise of it makes him raise his eyebrows, and makes the heart suddenly pound within his chest. With a rush of stupid hopefullness and uncertainty, Garazeb considers that there might actually be the _slightest_ of possibilities that Roy was correct in his estimation. Because--up until this very moment--he hadn’t allowed himself to actually consider it. 

That Kallus might actually want him _back._

Fighting back a feeling of inappropriate giddiness, Zeb leans forward and places his hands on either side of Kallus. “Well. That’s good, then,” he grunts, unable to muster out a more polished response. _How could I? I’m suddenly lost in the middle of everything._ “Alright, yeah. Go ahead, then, and put yer arms on my shoulders--” he closes his eyes, trying not to inhale the scent of the man’s whisky-spice, expensive collage, “-- _that’s_ it. Now, hold on to yer horses--” 

Kallus laughs. “You have _no idea_ how many times I’ve been told that recently.” 

With a huff, Zeb stands up, balancing his weight and the heavy addition of Kalus. He’d underestimated the man; even though the IRS agent is slightly shorter than him, he is _solid._ Compact, probably, with all of those well-maintained muscles that he’d felt while they’d been horseback riding. _Steady,_ Zeb thinks, both to his body and to his mind. _Let’s make it back to the truck. We’ve got an injury to attend._ Wrapping his arms more firmly under the other man’s rear, he draws him close, gathering him closer into his chest. 

“Alright, try to let me know if yer gonna shift around from there. We’ve got a bit of a hike to the top, and I’m gonna need all the balance that I can get.” 

For his part, Kallus only makes a humming sound in return. Which should have, for all accounts, been a relief; but instead, Zeb can _feel_ the way that the sound vibrates through his core, _feel_ the movement of the ripple into his own chest. As the sound moves between them, he almost releases a short gasp--one that has nothing to do with the way that his body is working, and everything to do with the way that the hairs on his arms are standing on end. 

_You can do this,_ he tells himself, baring down. _Just put one foot in front of the other. It’s all going to work out okay after this._

* * *

Zeb’s always been more of a demolitions expert than someone good at repairs.

And yet, nonetheless, the interweaving of bandages that he'd made up seem to hold Agent Kallus’ leg together well enough to make due. Kanan, in all of his brilliance, had not only packed up the regular medical items, but he’d also included a jar of Zeb’s own, homemade moonshine. The rhubarb-infused, nearly 150-proof beverage had also served them well. Not only was the alcohol powerful enough to serve as his working antiseptic, but it had also been useful as an effective pain-numbing agent while he'd gone about resetting Kallus' break. 

_“T-thanks,_ ” Kallus slurs gratefully, now both injured and inebriated. “You’re t-the best, Gr’zeb.” 

When he says his name, he pops his lips to make the ‘b’ stand out at the ending. It makes the alcohol shining upon his fair mouth burn wetly in the moonlight--and Zeb finds himself resisting the urge to lean in and taste it. _He’s drunk,_ Zeb reminds himself sternly. _And with a broken limb, no less. It wouldn’t be very kind to take advantage of him, when he’s so vulnerable like this._

Still, the erratic beating of his heart urges him on to consider more thoughtless endeavors. 

Kallus reaches up to push a handful of sweating hair out of his eyes. He’d fared impressively well, Garazeb thought, given the painfulness of the situation. He’d hissed and spit when Zeb had first undone the bandages, and he’d cried out when the bone had crunched back into place. But then, he’d settled back into his sleepy sedation, muttering words like ‘ _stupid’_ and ‘ _horses’_ and _‘never again.’_ Zeb had to correct him more than once that Phoenix was actually a mare, and not a stallion; and for some reason, Kallus seemed to think that this was funny. 

“Just my luck,” he says, leaning back against the illuminated cab of the pickup and groaning. 

Kallus and Zeb are sitting in the back, lying on a heap of wool blankets and staring up at the stars. It was probably time for them to head back, but Zeb had also indulged in the moonshine earlier, and so it might be best for them to wait a bit yet. Besides; when else was he going to spend time with a malleable, sleep-drunk, handsome Kallus? 

“Just yer luck, _what?”_ Zeb asks, fighting back a yawn and rubbing at an eye. 

He kicks one of his feet over the opposite knee, resting casually against the back of the pickup bed. _Life could be like this,_ he thinks, imagining that he is actually out here on purpose with Agent Kallus. _Sharing a midnight dinner and a hard-hitting beverage. Talking like old pals and counting the shooting stars._

“Jus’ my luck to be on the wrong side of things,” he mutters, scrubbing at his mussed hair again. “You know, life would be a whole lot _simpler_ if I could just, like Hera said, _be who I want.”_

Somehow, in this state, the transition makes logical sense. Zeb rolls over, putting one hand underneath his head to support himself as he looks at Kallus. Running his hand through his beard, he watches the other man stare at the dark sky. Kallus’ golden eyes are reflecting the stars, with his freckles a pale reflection of constellations. “...Like _Hera_ said?” he prompts. 

Kallus snorts. It’s more of a sound of sadness and disgust than pleasure. 

“Yeah. Think that I let her down today,” he replies. He looks over at Zeb, eyes illuminated in the light of the cab. “I went over to the shop earlier to see Hera. We had a good time, and she showed me her Thunderbolt. _But…”_ he winces, eyes shifting away again towards the sky. “... _then_ she started asking me about why I’m doing all of this. Why I’m _here,_ and what my motives are. And she told me…” he mutters something, too low for Zeb to hear, “...well, she basically said that I’m destroying her family. And that I’d better get far away from here, as soon and as fast as I can.” 

Zeb feels his face crinkle in the moonlight. 

“Why?” he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer. “What did you say to her, Kallus? Is there something else that I should know about you?” In the length of the silence that follows, he can almost guess the answer: that Agent Kallus is, as they’d all suspected, _not_ here to help them. But is here to deepen the financial gap of their pending foreclosure, and to stir up the same trouble as previous others had attempted. “Let me guess: ya don’t actually have a plan to help us save the ranch. Yer just here for the money.” 

Kallus makes a soft noise--neither of agreement or dissent--and Zeb sighs heavily. 

“M’not surprised. Fact, nobody is,” he rumbles. _Doesn’t matter that it sticks like a knife in my gut,_ Zeb thinks, internally clutching at his aching side. _Doesn’t matter that I want you, and you might even want me. Because you’re here as my nemesis. And I’m going to put my family first._ “Just. A bit disappointed, is all.” 

There is a shifting, and then, Kallus has turned to lean upon his arm. His posture mirrors Zeb’s. 

_“Why?_ ” he asks, the word coming out perhaps more forceful than he’d intended. Blushing, Kallus bites at his lip--Zeb’s eyes follow the working of pearlescent teeth marks--and he gathers himself before continuing on. “Why is it a disappointment to you, Zeb? Why would it matter, if you knew about who I am all along?” 

Zeb frowns at him through the darkness. _Because I wanted to see if something could happen,_ he wants to say. _Because I think that there could’ve been a good thing between us._

Instead, he just heaves another sigh. “No particular reason,” he answers, not meeting the other man’s searching gaze. “Just. Musta thought that you seemed a bit better than the rest of them. Thought that...our conversation that second day when ya showed up seemed to have potential.” He recalls standing at odds with Agent Kallus in the drive, exchanging words about things like _‘searching for answers’_ and _‘pursuing justice.’_ “Thought that. I dunno. We might even be friends.” 

The look of yearning on Kallus’ face is transparent. 

He gives a shuddering sigh, dropping his gaze from where he’s been looking at Zeb. “That would be. _Nice,”_ he replies, sounding as though the admission physically pained him. “It’s been a long while since I’ve had a friend. Or even a colleague I could call a trusted ally.” He drops one hand, tracing shapes on the stiff, woolen blanket puddled below him. “I never wanted any of this, you know. I wanted to be a mechanic. Like _Hera.”_ When he looks up, Zeb’s eyes are waiting there for him. “You were right, Garazeb. I don’t like who I am. And I _really_ don’t know where this life went all wrong.” 

His hand falls listless and still upon the blanket. 

Zeb isn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t expected this kind of honesty; he hadn’t expected a confession, of _any_ kind, about who the man was or what he wanted. But the admission that he had been wrong was good enough; and the acknowledgement that he is, and continues to be, a part of a broken system is _truly_ unsettling. Zeb reaches out to place a steadying hand on Kallus’ arm, looking at him with a new set of eyes. _Perhaps,_ he thinks, _I am giving up on this man too easily. Perhaps Kanan Jarrus is right about him._ Watching the painful, guilty look upon the other man’s face, Zeb wonders if there is some possible way that he can convince the agent to quit. 

_And--what?_ He scolds himself sharply. _Run away, and live at the ranch? Turn over a new leaf, and start his life over? With_ **_you?_ **

The idea is ludicrous and impossible, but it still stirs something burning within his gut. Closing his eyes and squeezing the hand upon the other man’s biceps, Zeb permits himself a moment to wish that he could also have something like this. _To belong to somebody else again. To rest in someone’s arms, and to feel your arms around them._ When he opens his eyes, he almost shudders. 

Kallus is only _inches_ away from his lips. 

“Is t-this _okay?...”_ the other man breathes. The moonshine sweetness on his mouth is fanning over Zeb’s face, washing him with hints of rhubarb and spirits. All at once, it is everything that Zeb has ever wanted to taste--and everything that he is _terrified_ of. He can count the ginger freckles upon his nose, see the fan of his sandy-blond, curling eyelashes. “Can I...do you mind if...?” the whispers of air from his mouth tickle his wet, parted lips. 

With a shaky groan of longing, Garazeb sinks into the offered kiss. 

Yes: it is _dangerous,_ that much is apparent. Because the moment that his mouth has connected to the other man’s, something electric is sweeping through his body. It is consumes him, heady and powerful and terrifying, sweeping from the base of his head all the way down to the tips of his toes. He feels his hips lurching forward, searching for the hopeful promise of friction, and feels a tingling, sky-falling sensation run up his spine. _Yes!_ he gasps, opening his mouth to receive the intrusion of a sliding, wet tongue. _Yes, oh, fucking_ **_god,_ ** _how I’ve wanted this!_ The sheer powerfulness of his desire threatens to sweep him away. 

The world is spinning, and then Kallus is on top of him. 

He gasps and _moans_ as he feels the other man’s weight shifting atop him, moving so that Kallus is straddling over his waist. Zeb feels his shaking hands reach up and tangle themselves into his sandy hair, pausing only for a moment when the other man hisses in sudden pain. Zeb hesitates, waiting for a go-ahead after Kallus shifts his broken leg. 

“D-don’t, don’t _stop,”_ Kallus pleads, his voice sounding broken. “Zeb...I’ve wanted...I _want…”_

But the scent of the breath rolling off of him reminds Garazeb of their situation. Currently, they are parked in the middle of the curving backgrounds headed to Bahryn, and with one man splinted and bearing a broken leg. Although he can tell that the drink has finally left his own system, he is fairly certain that the other man is not sober; otherwise, he would most likely _not_ be clambering on top of him, begging for sex in the wilderness midnight. Some things are really _too_ good to be true. 

Hating himself--and the heat of the moment--Zeb reaches up and presses back on Kallus’ chest. 

“Look,” he pants, running a thumb over the man’s reddened lips. “I don’t. I don’t wanna stop this either. But it’s _bad_ right now, Kallus,” he says, flinching at the realness of his own words. “You’re drunk, and injured. I’m tired, and old.” He watches the other man’s handsome face fall, and he strokes the thumb over his cheekbone. “When you sober up, yer gonna realize that you don’t want any of this. And when I get ya back to yer hotel on Bahryn, yer not gonna wish it had happen any ways else.” 

With a great, tremendous effort of power and will, Zeb hoists himself into a sitting position. He doesn’t look at Kallus, spread out atop him. He desperately _wants_ to look at him. 

“C’mon, I’m gonna get you into the passenger side of the cab. We’re taking ya home. And we’ll try an talk about this another day.” Moving his hands so that they are around the other man’s waist, Zeb begins to move his weight off of him. It _aches--_ the coldness of the night bites at his empty skin, and the roughness of his jeans burns at his erection. “Let’s get goin’. It’s already been a long day.” 

Hosting himself towards the back of the cab, not looking at the beautiful man in the moonlight, Zeb prepares for their travel arrangements. 

* * *

  
The trip back to Kallus' hotel had been sobering in more ways than one.   
  
  
For the first part of the slow and steady trip, the sullen silence that stretched between them had felt a bit like Kallus' boiling anger. But then--after he appeared to let the alcohol fade from his system, and seemed to become more aware of what was happening--the frustration transformed into something more embarrassed. And _painful_. Every time that Zeb hit a bump in the road, the agent would moan and clutch at his leg. It wasn't the sound of _good_ moaning, either; not the kind that he could have pulled from the man, if they'd just stayed in the darkness of the moment. The heavy, tired sighs emanating from his passenger side could have been panting gasps in the heat of passion. If only Zeb hadn't decided to go and be honorable about it all. 

_Fuck this,_ Zeb thinks, pulling into the old, battered parking lot for the second time this week. _I never wanted to deal with Agent Kallus. I never asked for this._

Ignoring the prickle of pointed silence, Zeb exits his door and makes his way around. When he gets there, Agent Kallus is already waiting for him; he has one arm out, as though he wants to sling it around Zeb's shoulders and try to walk back on his injured leg. "Not gonna happen," he says, reaching forward to pick the man up again. "I know that yer having a few regrets, but ya don't wanna add _more._ It's goin' to hurt like the devil if you try to walk on that. Just let me carry ya." 

_"Fine."_

Kallus' voice is quiet and low, and he cannot make eye-contact with Zeb. Forcing down the sick, disappointed lump in his throat, Zeb reaches out and picks him up again. Somehow, this time Kallus feels a bit lighter; as though he is more awake, and not so much deadweight for him to carry. _And perhaps, he is,_ Zeb thinks, turning and kicking the pickup door shut behind him. _We let all of that tension and nonsense out. Now, he can go back to being the asshole he is. Without me becoming some sort of distraction or burden._

Grinding his teeth, Zeb stomps towards the illuminated hotel. 

It's a bit of a trick, making their way up the stairs. He doesn't have to pause and make awkward explanations to the attendant, because he already knows where to find Kallus' room. Stalking past the wide-eyed, bespectacled teenager, he makes his way towards the steps instead of the elevator. _One less moment to be alone with Agent Kallus,_ he thinks bitterly, huffing as he hikes the man up his chest. _And one more thing to keep me distracted. If I can just focus on this, I won't have to remember how--_

And then, of course, it's all coming back. 

The feeling of their bodies moving against one another. The sweet, acrid taste of the moonshine on the other man's lips. The hint of salt, as sweat rolls down his brow. The burning, long-awaited _passion_ that burns like a fire between them, waiting just outside of his grasp for the very moment such as that one to happen. 

_Stop that,_ he tells himself with an inward slap. _It's over. It's not going to happen again._

Finally, they reach the horribly-carpeted hallway. Zeb hears Agent Kallus give an equal sigh of relief, and he shakes his head in dry humor despite himself. "Yeah, ya really got quite a workout, didn't ya, buddy?" he teases the other man gruffly, hoisting him higher into his arms as he walks down the hallway towards the door. "Listen, how about you make me a promise: I won't bring up what happened between us tonight; and you won't try and ride a wild horse bareback ever again." Arriving in front of Kallus' door, he settles the man against the threshold. Reaching into his pocket, he shoves in the key-card. "Fair enough?" 

Kallus doesn't answer.

The door slides open behind them, and Zeb feels the cool, oddly-scented blast of temperature-controlled air. He shoulders his way into the small, twin-bed lodging of the hotel, feeling mild surprise at the modesty of it. Following the man's grunted gesture, he turns Kallus towards the bed, placing him down with a huff. Kallus gasps, leaning back and massaging at where the splinted bandage meets his leg. Garazeb had, at one point, removed most of his trousers for better access to the injury; and now, from this vantage point, he can quite clearly see the outline of the man's underwear.

It's _another_ surprise that he still looks so solid. 

"Right," he coughs, looking away. "Give me a call in the mornin', just to make sure that you didn't die from infection. We'll make sure that you get a good medic, and then you'll be all patched up and ready for anything--" 

"-- _Stay."_

Zeb is stopped short by the way that the man is reaching out towards him. Kallus is looking up, and on his face is that distinctive, heartbreaking yearning again. He is not drunk; he is thoroughly sober this time. And yet, his eyes are clouded not just with pain, but with sentiment; and his fingertips tremble as he gestures Zeb back towards him. His cheeks flush, and his chest rises and falls in a tight, desperate way.

"Stay with me tonight, Garazeb. _Please._ "

His head spins at the strangeness of the moment. Inside, Zeb's heart leaps in his chest. He feels his stomach twisting and turning with fluttering anxiety, and he feels the hardness of his desire returning. _No,_ he thinks, taking a step back. This wasn't like before; this wasn't some drunken, pain-heady kiss in the moonlight. This was actual _wanting;_ and Agent Kallus could never want him. Not without any kind of strings attached. Not without motives. Not simply because he could wanted him to be _his._

"Goodnight, Agent Kallus," he replies softly. Turning and walking away towards the door, Zeb closes his eyes. 

_This is the right decision,_ he tells himself and his stuttering heart. _This is the best way to protect your family. This is the most realistic, safe choice in the moment._ Because once this fleeting passion has left them, Garazeb Orrelios will be left once again with the pieces. Like all of the others, Kallus will slip from between his handsl and he will stay alone on the ranch, with a broken and aching heart, wondering what it might be like to ever be someone's enough. _Time to go. It's all for the best._ Shutting the door behind him, Zeb turns and walks down the hallway. 

* * *

And then, after a long moment, he turns and walks back. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one's going to be from Kallus' perspective.


	13. Kallus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus wrestles with new highs and lows. He seeks out and learns answers from the odd neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to quickly thank [ Akta Lakota Museum and Cultural Center](http://aktalakota.stjo.org/site/PageServer?pagename=alm_homepage) for providing some working translations of the Lakota language. Please the end notes for more details.

* * *

**_Kallus_ **

* * *

Warm air whipping his loose, sandy bangs against his forehead, Alexandr Kallus drives through the Badlands wilderness. His windows are down; and he is _smiling_. 

Normally, IRS Agent Kallus would do anything to keep the dust and the grime from entering his vehicle. The top-of-the line, immaculate roadster was his pride and joy. However, on _this_ day--with the dirt of his fall in the forest still clinging to his fingernails, and the rich, heady smell of Garazeb Orrelios lingering thick upon his skin--he cannot make himself care. 

_Guess I’ve gone local,_ he thinks to himself. _That’s what happens, apparently, when you start hooking up with a cowboy._

Kallus’ splinted, brace-bound leg gives a throbbing ache, reminding him that he’d better _not_ try and replicate last night’s activities until a far later date. He still can hardly believe it: of all the things to happen between himself and Zeb, he’d certainly not been expecting... _this._ To have his wants so eagerly met, and so suddenly after requesting. To have his aching, bone-deep hunger acknowledged, and to have it met with a fierceness in turn. 

When he’d first heard the knocking last night on his door, Kallus had supposed that he’d already fallen asleep from the exhaustion _(and humiliated rejection)_ of the day. But _then_ , Garazeb Orrelios had re-entered his hotel room. And, key-card still in hand, he’d strode across the moonlit darkness; pressed his hot, open mouth against his; and had begun kissing Alexsandr Kallus as though he’d never kissed anyone else. 

Kissing had turned into touches; touches, into a heated embrace. Finally--with their tangled bodies thrusting together; with his broken leg, injured and aching; with their bodies still mostly-clothed, and with their eager mouths gasping together--Kallus had taken the other man inside of him. Straddling Zeb, he’d sunk down upon the cowboy’s (frankly, _enormous_ ) erection. Kallus had fisted his hands into the torn-open flannel, groaning and leaking with his own need, and had pounding up and down upon the organ between them until they’d both finished in tearful oblivion. 

Turns out that Kallus’ second ride of the evening was to be far more pleasurable than his first. 

Not truly absorbing the radio’s words, he hums and taps his fingers upon the steering wheel. _It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten laid,_ Kallus reflects. _Far too long_ \--given the way that his head is light enough to float off his shoulders. Far too long, given how his thumping heart is bursting with fullness, threatening to pound free from his chest. Looking into the rearview mirror, he sees that his skin is practically luminescent in its healthy glow: that his stubbled, unshaven face is so bright from that goofy grin, that he hardly can hardly recognize himself in the expression of it. 

_A long time,_ Kallus thinks. _But a good time._ He exhales. _And, hopefully, a good habit to break._

Because he has been _thinking_ about Garazeb Orrelios. Not just about how the man had rescued him last night; not just about how he’d returned to his bed, offered himself to Kallus and invited every kiss and touch of his presence. He is thinking about what it might actually mean for him to consider a real _relationship_ with the man. Of what it might look like for him to actually make good on those words--no matter how drunkenly uttered they’d been--and to try and start his life over again. To be with Zeb. To be himself. To become a better man. 

Kallus watches the golden-brown landscape rush by, considering and measuring his desires. 

On one hand, it was completely ridiculous: Garazeb is a client, and his family is under investigation. The man has a shady, rebellious history--not to mention all of the blood-red paperwork that he’d found on him, or the other sordid stories that Hera had shared in confidence. _And yet,_ on the other hand, there is nothing that could convince him that his life has been better than it is at the present. Garazeb is a kind-hearted, honorable man. He seems to like Kallus, and Kallus likes him. True, his family is strange; but they are incredibly warm and welcoming. They put up with Kallus; they even seem to like him as well. And even with all of their concerning and various pasts, the whole crew had done everything to make a new name. The more he thinks about it, the more the idea takes hold of Kallus. If there was ever a time, place or persons who made it worth it to start his whole life over again: it was right here, on the _Ghost,_ with Zeb and his spectres. 

For a warm, perfect moment, Kallus allows the idea to wrap all around and inside of him. And then, returning his eyes to the winding road, he sighs heavily. It’s just not _realistic._

 _You’re just high on endorphins,_ he tells himself calmly. _Your brain chemistry is running on high. That was a very good fucking; and, as you said, it’s been a long time._ He chews on his lower lip, watching a tumbleweed rolling over the road ahead. _Not to mention, those high-quality pain meds._

Smiling a little in spite of his new, anxious emotions, he recalls the less-fun bits of the morning. Not wanting to risk a shower before attending the wound, Zeb had driven him over to the local clinic still smelling of flesh-wounds and sex. Kallus had felt an ache in his heart when the cowboy had left him sitting there, even though he’d still promised to call him and check in on his status later. He knows that he shouldn’t feel bad--the animals on the ranch need their daily and regular tending--and yet, he’d found himself wishing that the other man could have been there with him, reassuringly squeezing his hand, while the stern-faced doctor reset his broken bones with a snap. 

_You shouldn’t be so dependent on him. You’ve known Zeb for, what, just over one week? Yes, you slept together, but what does that make you? You hardly even know him. He might not even consider you to be his friend._

Kallus squeezes his hands on the wheel as a sudden wave of nausea washes over him. 

Right. There’s always that _. That_ being the fact that Agent Kallus had been sent here as a financial investigator, with the goal of doing whatever was necessary to unearth family trouble and recover their coveted, priceless oil land. _That_ being the fact that Kallus had been cornered by Hera, who had _accurately_ assessed his intentions and had given him a thoroughly sound intimidation, and that he likely no longer had secrets. _That_ being the truths that he’d admitted to Garazeb last night--filled with moonshine and under the stars of Bahryn--when the man had asked him about his mission. 

_Don’t forget about who you really are,_ Kallus tells himself, the bitter taste of shame on his mouth. _Don’t forget about why you’re actually here. Zeb Orrelios does not_ _want you like that._ His hands tense around the steering wheel so hard that his folded knuckles turn white. _You might have been good enough for a forgettable, rough one-night stand to relieve some of his tension. But you’re not ever going to be good enough for something like that._ He sighs. _You’re not a good man. You don’t deserve this._

Feeling sick, he watches a circle of vultures spiraling down over fresh roadkill.

When the alarm on his phone chimes a warning, Kallus tears his eyes away from the Badlands. On his map, he can see the destination quickly approaching: _Vanto Residence,_ a location that he’d added himself. Kallus had marked it with the address he’d discovered in the hidden, confidential documents buried among Kanan’s taxes, noting it as a place to visit. And after deciding that he could still do with a few more details about the land of the _Ghost Town_ ranch, he’d plotted a trip into the dry, harsh wilderness to find some answers. And yet, up until this point, all he’d found was time to consider his ill-advised crush on Garazeb. 

_"There_ you are,” he sighs with satisfaction. “I was hoping I’d actually find someone, after all of this…”

High up on a hill, at the end of a long and winding dirt road, he can see an expansive, open-porch ranch. It looks to be newer than some of the other local houses, but nonetheless, it is rustic and blending naturally into the mountains. Kallus whistles, looking up and down the home as his roadster pulls into the drive. From what he can see, the pillars and beams of wood that hold it up the first level give it a rugged, wilderness look. However, he can see the signs of modern technology: a light on upstairs; the internet dish on the rooftop. “Nice house,” he comments. “Looks like the resident might have even built it.” Slowing down to make his approach visible, Kallus works his roadster up the drive. 

The first thing that he sees when he parks his vehicle is that there is a curl-coated, tail wagging dog bounding cheerily towards him. Kallus winces--he doesn’t much care for dogs. Too energetic, too _bouncy._

Then, glancing back up, the next thing that he sees is a tall, slender man with a serious face. He’s watching Kallus carefully from behind a veil of long, blue-black hair, which seems to be folded into a loose braid where it does not fall into stray threads. _The resident?_ Kallus thinks, stepping out from his car and crunching into the gravel. _He doesn’t look like what I expected for a ‘Vanto.’ He’s not German. Maybe...Lakota?_ As the man strides closer towards him, Kallus finds his suspicions confirmed. 

_“Dacoo ya cheen hey?”_ he asks when he is a few feet away, mouth flowing with a language that he recognizes but cannot translate. _“Oh ya lay hey?”_

The searching look that he is giving Kallus is more cautious than friendly. It is difficult to tell his feeling from inflection and tone of voice alone, as language informs all of that; but the grooves of his forehead and lines of his mouth imply that he is likely unhappy. Fleetingly, Kallus thinks of Zeb brandishing his rifle at him upon his first arrival. 

“Good afternoon,” he says, drawing the purple cowboy hat from his head. “My apologies, sir, I don’t speak Lakota. Are you Mr. Vanto?” 

The man eyes him warily, not answering. From behind him, a shorter, tan-skinned adult male exits the house. This man’s hair is shaggy and brown, and he is wearing an olive-colored shirt with his pair of work trousers. Clearly neither one of them had been expecting visitors, because when he catches Kallus, he freezes. “ _Due wah he hey?”_ he calls softly. 

Kallus’ eyes shift back to the man standing in front of him, who appears to be content observing. He feels himself growing shy under the scrutiny as the other man hustles forward. 

“Um, hello there?” the man asks. There is a surprisingly cowboy twang to his voice after uttering the smoothness of Lakota words just moments before. “And who just might you be?” The cowboy looks him up and down, placing his hands upon his hips. _This,_ he thinks, could be Vanto: the brown-eyed, sun-freckled, strong-armed man looks more like what he’d imagined. 

“Are you Mr. Vanto?” he asks, thumbing the cowboy hat in his hand. 

A look of slyness crosses the shorter man’s face. “Well, if yer just here for lookin’, we _both_ are,” he answers. “Nice to see one of our own around here. So, what business do ya have with us, Mr. Fancy-Ass Roadster?” 

Startled in more ways than one, Kallus feels himself flushing. 

_Both of them--OH?!_ he realizes, watching the speaker slip his hand into the other man’s. _But, if they are? And then, when he called me ‘one of our own’--?!_ Stumbling over his words, finding himself unexpectedly seen, Kallus struggles to gather himself. “Er. Um. _Right._ My apologies for the sudden intrusion, Misters Vanto. I was hoping to visit with the current resident of this lot, and to inquire about its history. I’m an IRS agent, and I’m currently working on a case with another one of your neighbors.” Kallus licks his dried lips nervously. “I was hoping that I could learn further information from the original landowner.” 

The man with the Western accent lifts an eyebrow. He turns, gazing up at his... _husband_. Silently, the man with long hair nods back. 

“Well, it don’t get much more original than this fella right here,” the man says. He looks back at Kallus, squeezing his partner’s hand. “Thrawn an’ his family were the first people to settle; the were here _long_ before my wretched family.” He flashes Kallus a dazzling smile. “Would ya like to come in, have a glass of tea while we’re talkin’? I find it’s easier to handle the bane of colonialism if we can do it all without bein’ thirsty.” 

_Um._ Kallus doesn’t know _where_ to begin with any of _that._

“S-sure!” he says, accepting the offered invitation. ( _He’d learned from his time with Kanan Jarrus; it was better with Western, rural hospitality to say ‘yes’ right away, rather than to go dancing around it and be bullied into it at the end)._ “Yes, that sounds lovely. Cold tea?” 

The man hums in agreement. He releases his partner’s hand and reaches out to shake Kallus’. 

“That’s right. Sun tea with lemon and honey is my specialty.” His grip is strong and warm, and Kallus can feel the roughness of work against his smooth skin. “The name’s Eli Vanto, by the way. And like I said, this is my husband Thrawn. Well, _Mitth’raw’nurodo,_ but nobody this side of West river can say it.” He winks at Kallus. 

Kallus can feel his cheeks warming. _Karabast,_ as Zeb would say. _This one is charming. And really quite handsome._

Feeling unsure of what he is getting himself into, he follows the pair of men inside. Eli gestures for him to sit down at the outdoor, wooden table, and Kallus places himself opposite Thrawn. He folds his hands in his lap, uncertain of if he should be doing, when the other man interrupts his tumbling thoughts: “I do speak English, you know.” 

He blinks. Thrawn’s voice is low, soft and melodic. Strangely, it reminds him of organ music. 

“Oh! My apologies. I wasn’t meaning to ignore you,” he says, feeling himself blushing with embarrassment once again. “Or trying to imply that.” He resists the urge to bite down on his flapping tongue. This man, too, is lovely: smooth-skinned, dark-eyed, with long, curving lashes. His gaze is intense, and seems to bore into him as though he can see right through Kallus. “It’s just that your partner caught me by surprise. I’m not used to being so quickly identified.” He ducks his head. “As far as I know, there are very few of us around here.” He feels himself shifting with discomfort in his chair as the other man steadily watches him. 

“How... _interesting_ ,” Thrawn eventually replies, still in that cool and observant tone. “You seem to think that we share something in... _common_.” 

Kallus feels his eyes widen with fear and then narrow in suspicion, trying his best to put the pieces together. _And what exactly does he mean by that?!_ He wonders, dropping his gaze to the table and declining to join in the fierce staring match. _I thought that he--well, didn’t Eli, his husband, say_ \--Beneath the table, he clenches his fists. _Bollocks. Even reading Zeb is much easier than this._

And so it is a welcome relief to him when the friendly-faced cowboy returns, carrying with him a fresh tray of scones along with the beverages.

“You’re just in time for an afternoon snack,” he informs Kallus cheerfully. Turning to Thrawn, he scolds, “Now, my dear, you _stop_ that. We don’t know why Agent Kallus is here. And we don’t know that he’s an issue to us, until he comes right out and tells us so.” He sits down, distributing golden-brown glasses of tea to a sputtering Kallus and a grimacing Thrawn. “What? Too much sugar?” he asks him innocently. 

Kallus takes a hasty gulp of the sun tea and shudders. “No, not at all,” he replies. “It’s just--how did you know that I am an agent?” 

The cowboy smirks, and he turns to look at his husband. Thrawn leans back in his own chair, steepling his hands underneath his sharp chin. “It was obvious by the way that you... _presented_ yourself,” he replies in that musical, confident tone. “First of all, the Lamborghini. Not only do most common people not drive it, but also, those only making an eight-figure paycheck.” He taps his two pointer fingers. “As such, we are constrained to only a limited amount of vocational tracks. You are not a lawyer; although you are well dressed, no such person would find themselves in this time or location. Nor,” his lip curls, “would they have fallen off a horse and injured themselves like that.” 

This time, Kallus _does_ stare. He shoots a look over at Eli, who is looking quite proud of himself. 

“You are not a doctor,” he continues, interrupting Kallus when he opens his mouth to ask, “neither of academia nor of practice. And besides, _these_ days, doctors hardly make what they are worth.” He makes an expression of sour distaste. “Let’s just suppose: you work in finances. You are some kind of inspector, high up in the ranks.” He studies Kallus, eyes flickering up and down from behind the pointed fingers. “Out in this country, the only reason that you could be here is oil. That--” he narrows his eyes “or a priceless foreclosure. Or _both.”_

Kallus realizes that he is holding his iced tea suspended in front of his open mouth, and he hastily brings the glass up with his hand. Sweating, he sets it back down. 

“That’s _very_ clever,” he says, eyeing the dark-haired man. “All of that, deduced from my car and my clothing. I suppose that you are some kind of investigator?” he asks, wondering if he will get an answer in response this time. 

Turns out, he does not. Thrawn just smirks and sits back. 

Eli sighs and reaches out for a scone, handing it to Kallus. “We were, of a sort,” he replies. “But we don’t do that kinda work anymore. Too corrupt; too much pressure on the vulnerable people who can’t defend themselves.” His gaze flicks up to Kallus, coffee-brown and meaningful. “You get why that kind of life is unsustainable.” 

_“Yes,”_ Kallus hears himself saying. He bites into the scone, smiling around the tastes of lemon rind and raspberry. 

“Anyway, he’s not bein’ honest with you about all of that. Thrawn guessed it all by the sound of your accent; you studied at Cambridge, didn’t ya?” he asks. “But, more obvious than that: your name is on the outside of your briefcase. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out _that_.” 

After some light conversation, Kallus finds himself relaxing. The trio of them sip their cool drinks in the warm afternoon, glasses sweating and sun beaming down on their necks. Eli helps himself to another scone, then a third before he’s done. He tries to get Thrawn to eat more than half of his first, but it just isn’t working. Sighing, he waves the man away when Thrawn suggests that he ought to go and finish his artwork. Kallus feels his eyes widen as the taller man leans down for a brief kiss, pressing his lips against Eli’s plush mouth. He feels as though he should close his eyes. 

“Apologies, Agent Kallus,” Thrawn says over his shoulder, addressing him directly for the first time as he departs. “Perhaps next time, we will visit longer.” 

Not waiting for an answer, the odd man disappears into the house. Kallus watches him go, feeling slightly boggled and offended at the same time. Turning to the other Vanto, he sees the man watching him with a grin. Kallus tries and fails to sort out his feelings, deciding that he doesn’t much like the taller man. “Well,” he says politely, “This has gone unexpectedly well. Thank you for the introductions, and for the good food. I can only assume that you entertain visitors far more pleasant than this, and far more often.” 

Eli snorts into a laugh, gathering up the crumbly dishes. 

“With _that_ man as my partner?” he asks, shaking his head. “Naw, we’re more of the reclusive types. Besides, people try not to bug the weirdos up on the hill. Homosexuals, Indians, and all of that.” His voice is still toned to be humorous, but Kallus can see the hardness in his eyes. “So what brings you here to our house, Agent Kallus?” he asks. “You wanna talk about the _Ghost?_ You want to know how it ended up as Hera Syndulla and Kanan Jarrus’ land?” 

Kallus blinks. “I thought it belonged only to Kanan?” he asks, once again revealing his ignorance. 

Eli shrugs. He sits back in his chair, kicking up his heels. “Hera’s got an equal share of the land. When they bought it, they had this dream of turning it into an open ranch. Equine therapy; horseback riding; environmental classes. A little bit of everything, along with a safe house, providing wayward kids and teens with a good, solid place.” He studies Kallus. “Seems nice, doesn’t it?” 

“Very,” Kallus agrees. He’d gathered some bits and pieces of this from Hera, but he hadn’t realized all of the _Ghost Town’s_ potential. 

“He thought so too,” Eli says, pointing with his eyes towards the upper level. “Thrawn and his family have lived here for ages. Even after they recovered the land from blood settlers like my family, they always loved that particular piece of Badlands ranch.” He grows serious, sitting forward in his chair. “But the dream that Hera and Kanan had sounded like an adventure. A little... _rebellion._ Offering people something better than what they had.” He opens his hands. “So he ended up given’ it to them. Hardly paid a dime when it left his hands.” 

Kallus stifles a gasp. He recalls the deed, and wondering why it had been absent of numbers. 

“You’re telling me,” he says, eyes fairly bulging out of his head, “that Thrawn and his family knew about the value of that land? And that they still sold it--no, _gave it away_ to the spectres, just because they thought that it was the right thing to do?” _Unbelievable,_ he thinks, trying to conceive of how this might actually work. _It’s. I’ve never seen anyone do something like that._

Eli nods slowly. He sets his empty glass down upon the table. 

“That’s exactly what I’m sayin’,” he replies. “Because that’s what his values are, as a person.” Eli folds his hands. It’s a shadowed imitation of his husband; far less rigid and speculative, and far more soft within the gesture. “After gettin’ out of what kinda work we were doin’ with our lives before--and don’t bother askin’, because I won’t tell ya--after that, we did some serious thinkin’ about what we both wanted. Along with deciding to be a better human, turns out that what I wanted was _Thrawn.”_ His mouth quirks slightly at the edges. “And I was willing to do just about anythin’ to make him understand how much that mattered.” 

Kallus stares back at him, listening to every word intently. 

“And, biggest surprise of them all, turns out that Thrawn could be persuaded.” he laughs, bringing a rush of warmth into the conversation again. “Don’t ask me why somebody who should never want me--who sees me and my kin’ for the colonists that we are, when we stole their land, and took away everything from their family generations ago--don’t ask me why this man thought that he even wanted to give me a chance. But, as it turns out: the stars were sorta aligned. I ended up living back on the land where his family had once been...and he ended finding a home alongside me.” Eli’s eyes glitter with emotion. “First, we were neighbors. Then, we were friends. After falling in love, I…” he swallows, pausing for a moment. “After I knew that I loved him, I also knew that I couldn’t keep living like this, on his family’s land. Not after knowin’ him like I did. Not after realizing what kind of injustice it had been, and still continued to be.” 

Kallus watches Eli smile and shake his head. 

“So, I did what I knew was right: I gave it back to him, and told him I was movin’.” The sadness leaves his tawny face, replaced by something that could only be described as wonder. “And you know what he said? Said that he just as well figured that _I_ was home, and he still wanted to keep me around with him.” 

He runs his watery, grateful gaze on Kallus. 

“If yer judgin’ me by my actions or people, I’m somebody who ought to die alone. But, for some reason that still escapes me, _Thrawn--_ ” he pauses, appearing choked up. “-- _my partner_ decided that, to him, that I was more than my worst mistakes. He decided that, from his perspective, that I was worth it. That _we_ were worth it. And that, fucked as all of this reality is, that he still loves me and wants me to be with him.” 

Kallus feels his blood pounding inside of his ears. He feels his heart thundering inside his chest. He feels every word seeping into his bones, and feels the world being un-made and remade around him. 

_Zeb._

“You see, things don’t always work out in the way that ya expect,” Eli Vanto says. “Sometimes: they even turn out better. Sometimes, we even get more than we deserve.”

In the long silence that follows, both men are teary-eyed. Kallus finds himself wiping at his own face just as much as Eli did. They finished the scones, and drank the rest of the sun-tea in the pitcher. All of this was done in comfortable silence--the kind that happens after a child is born, or after the relief of a completed funeral. It seems appropriate: Kallus knows that something inside him is changing. 

Finally breaking the silence, Eli fixes him with a warm gaze. “Did I answer your questions, Mr. Agent Kallus?” 

He gives a shaky laugh. Rising from his seat, he mirrors the gesture of the other man. “More than you even know,” he replies, extending a hand once again for the man to shake. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Vanto. And also for your husband’s time as well.” He clutches the hand, feeling for the first time in a long while that he would like to ask for a hug. “Like Thrawn said: hopefully, we’ll have longer to visit next time.” 

“Hopefully!” Eli agrees. 

Turning to depart, Kallus picks up his briefcase. He hadn’t received the paperwork to condemn anyone on the _Ghost Town_ ranch; he hadn’t been given the ammunition necessary to take down Kanan Jarrus or Hera Syndulla, or to finish foreclosure. In fact, he’d been moved in a direction quite opposite: the soft fantasy of living a new life alongside Zeb had suddenly become more tangible, more _real,_ as he’d seen the other two men. As he walks back to his car, Kallus can sense the feeling of standing on the very brink of something. It’s something enormous; it’s something that promises a steep, gut-wrenching fall, but _also,_ suggests the promise of flight. Casting his briefcase into the backseat, Alexsandr Kallus climbs into the car. 

He needs to go and find Garazeb Orrelios. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAKOTA TO ENGLISH LOOSE TRANSLATIONS  
> Dacoo ya cheen hey? = What do you want?  
> Oh ya lay hey? = Who are you looking for?  
> Due wah he hey? = Who arrived?
> 
> Like many languages, Lakota is a tradition that is more often spoken than written down. As such, it is often changing in spelling, pronunciation and phrases. Thanks for your patience.
> 
> One final, important note: this chapter is in no way meant to be an apology for, excuse of, or forgiveness to the white settler genocide of Native people in the United States. In this piece of fiction, Thrawn and Eli choose to love each other in spite of that significant, painful history. I hope that your takeaways is that love is complex, and way more messy than we can ever control or expect. 
> 
> In my opinion, Kalluzeb is also a ship with these parallels.


	14. Art by Sempaiko: Moonshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You were right, Garazeb. I don’t like who I am. And I really don’t know where this life went all wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "MOONSHINE." Make sure to check out Sempaiko's other artwork at her [Tumblr](https://sempaiko.tumblr.com)! She gave me the okay to post this here. Please remember to always check with artists for permission before posting their artwork anywhere. Thank you!


	15. Ezra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezra takes interest in Zeb's love life. Then, a sobering talk with Kanan Jarrus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: FEELINGS

* * *

_Ezra_

* * *

It’s been a _long_ time since Zeb has stayed out overnight, so Ezra sees it as his sworn, brotherly duty to haze the man about it all throughout the following day. 

“Did you kiss him first, or did he kiss you?” Ezra asks. He kicks his legs, swinging them over the side of the fence where he and his elder brother are working. “No, don’t answer that: let me guess.” He ignores the irate, _step-off_ look that Zeb is giving him and plows heartily forward. “ _You_ said something that made him realize what idiots that you’ve been, but _he_ was the one who made the first move.” He grins, watching the telling flush behind the larger man’s ears. 

“Leave it, Ez,” Zeb replies in a rumble. He neither confirms nor denies the suspicions. 

Ezra laughs and jumps down from the fence, joining his brother in the tall-grass pasture. “How did it go? Was he smooth, using that professional voice with one of those pickup lines like, ‘ _do you come here often?_ ’” When Zeb grunts and turns away, Ezra dances around and bobs at his side. “Or was it so much worse than that? Like, when you arrived on your horse, all white-night in armor, did he bat those big doe eyes and say ‘ _my hero!’”_

Zeb snorts, picking up a large rock and tossing it out of the way. He turns to Ezra, caught between a smile and a frown. 

“I know that ya saw me leavin’ in my pickup,” he says, narrowing his dark eyes. “And this isn’t some kinda movie, Ezra. Agent Kallus was in bad shape when I found him. We got him patched up, and then, I kept an eye on him for the rest of the night. Didn’t want that leg injury to cause an infection. It’s just that simple.” 

Ezra wrinkles his nose. 

Garazeb Orrelios’ casual, calm tone of voice is almost convincing. _Almost_ . With that cool facade, Somebody else (who knew the man less) might’ve even been fooled. But this is _Ezra_ we’re talking about; and he knows his brother _far_ better than that. _At least,_ Ezra thinks to himself, _well enough to know that Zeb is lying. Or, that he’s leaving out some of the details._

Undeterred, he follows his brother over where he is working at the salt lick. 

Zeb is working on the nutrition cube with his large shoulders squared, back firmly towards him. But when Ezra circles around, he can see the uneasiness in his expression. _There’s more going on here,_ he thinks, both with a sense of humor and with uncertainty. _He got laid, obviously. But how is he feeling about it? Are they now on good terms?_

Reaching down into his saddle bag, Ezra pulls out a fresh hunk of mineral salt for the cattle. 

“Did you have a good time, at least?” he asks, handing off the roughly-cut cube to Garazeb. “You better have, because we had to finish up all the rest of the choring without ya.” He watches Zeb’s jaw working back and forth beneath his closed lips, knowing that he’s keeping words stuck within there. _Just gotta tease them all out._ “Sabine and I were starting up a betting pool, you know. About how long you would last before hitting the sack.” 

Zeb’s eyes flash with anger as he turns to look sharply at his brother. “Sabine told you that?” he asks, sounding hurt. 

Ezra raises his hands in quick submission. “No! She didn’t tell me anything! I was just kidding, Zeb.” He watches the man’s face fall in relief, then shift into a moody sort of irritation. He would feel a bit guilty-- _if_ his brother wasn’t so lock-lipped. Honestly, there are some days when Ezra wonders whether Zeb actually _wants_ to feel better, or if he’d rather just sit in his heavy feelings alone. 

_It’s hard,_ he thinks, _to help somebody out of the darkness when they’re unwilling to open up._

“I was just trying to get your goat,” Ezra admits, watching Zeb remove what remains of the lick. “But it sounds like maybe there is something that she knows? That I oughta know?...” He watches his brother drop the cube on the ground, then turn and face him with his crossed arms. That’s never a good sign, from Zeb, but it might be a sign of progress. 

Ezra grins and opens his hands, waiting expectantly for the answer to be placed in them. “... _Yes?”_

Zeb sighs. He glares at Ezra for a minute, then says: “Yeah, _fine._ I’d rather that ya hear it from me than through the grapevine.” He scowls. “I might’ve taken an interest in Agent Kallus...and he might’ve taken an interest back.” 

When Ezra gasps in theatrical surprise, Zeb rolls his eyes. “Well _c’mon_!” he says, blushing furiously, “Why’d ya ask me, then, if ya already knew?!”

Grinning from ear to ear, Ezra punches his brother in the arm. “Because I want to celebrate with you, dummy!” he laughs. “Because I’ve been watching the way that you make eyes at each other, and I was hoping that something might actually happen this time.” When he sees Zeb’s look of surprise, he shakes his head. “Zeb, you never let yourself get committed when you have an interest. So it’s great to see you do stuff like this. To just go ahead and let yourself be happy.” 

Zeb winces. He still looks embarrassed, but also visibly grateful. 

“Yer supposed to be my _younger_ brother,” he replies gruffly, throwing an arm around Ezra. “I’m supposed to be the one that gives you all the wisdom, not the other way around _._ ” Ezra beams, allowing himself to be hugged into his brother’s warm side. He smells totally _rank-_ -like harsh body odor, horse manure, and hard work outdoors--but he still enjoys the gesture.

“Ah, but I’ve always been the wise one,” Ezra replies in a sage voice, leaning in. “It must be all of that equine therapy training from Kanan.”

“ _Must_ be,” Kanan says, his voice with a note of impatience. “Good thing that you’re not dodging that training again right now...” Ezra whips around to see the _Ghost Town’s_ ranch owner sitting on top of his dappled-grey horse, watching them as silently as his approach. Ezra winces; he was supposed to meet him at the training circle nearly an hour ago. “C’mon, Ez,” Kanan says, as though reading his mind. “You’ve badgered your brother enough for one day. I need your help with getting started on patching up Phoenix.” 

Ezra brightens, shoving his way out of Zeb’s embrace. “You found her?!” 

“Hera did,” he replies simply. When Kanan smiles, and the lines around the edges of his milk-white eyes crinkle in humor. He gestures towards Ezra’s horse, who he’d brought with him out into the pasture. “Makes all of our work searching for her early this morning seem a bit foolish, doesn’t it?” He holds out the reins, beckoning the youngest member closer. “She’s in pretty good shape, but I’d like you to be there while I’m cleaning her wounds. We don’t want to make any mistakes.” 

“Yessir,” Ezra replies. He gives Zeb a parting salute, then makes his way over towards Midnight. “Think you can handle yourself out here alone, lovebird?” 

Zeb takes advantage of Kanan’s blindness and flashes his brother an unfriendly gesture. “Get lost, ya little sewer rat,” he grunts. “I was doin’ just fine before _you_ showed up out here, distracting me. Without your yammerin’, I should be able to get most of this work done by late afternoon.” He slaps the side of the mineral lick with an open hand. 

Kanan makes a humming noise. “That’s good, Zeb, because Hera called a family meeting.” Ezra looks at him in surprise. “She’d like it sooner or later. _Before_ we next see Agent Kallus.” 

There is a long, uncomfortable silence in the space between them. Ezra can feel the tension of unasked and unanswered questions hovering in the air. It makes the fine hairs of his tanned arms rise on end. _Has Zeb already told Kanan about what happened last night?_ He wonders. _And is Kanan, like, upset with him about it for some reason?_ He looks at the man, frowning. _No; he loves Zeb just as much as the rest of us. He’s known him longer than anyone else. This must be about something_ **_else_ ** _related to Agent Kallus._ Turning his gaze back on Zeb, Ezra gives him a shrug. _Hopefully. Something that’s not going to mess this whole thing up…_

Zeb is the first one to talk. “Sure thing. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He turns and resumes his work, face an inscrutable mask. 

As Ezra turns his horse to follow Kanan back to the barn, he has a feeling that he cannot place that things are _not_ going to go well. Hera is a very independent person; she hardly ever calls family meetings, and when she does, it’s always for a serious reason. Trying not to let the lingering sensation of dread weigh down on him without warrant, Ezra clicks his tongue to his lips and encourages Midnight into a gallop. 

* * *

  
  


Considering the rough start to her night, Phoenix appears to be in very good shape. 

Ezra admires the mare’s shining, copper-red coat, running his hands through the short hair of her neck soothingly while Kanan applies the medical treatment. Like the other horses _(and people)_ on their family’s ranch, she had arrived here as an unfortunate creature. In her early days, Phoenix had been used by her owners to harvest illegal estrogen. The inhumane practice had involved keeping her constantly pregnant, leaving her physically exhausted and emotionally weak. For this reason alone, Ezra has never begrudged her an ounce of that fiery spirit; in her place, he’d always fight back against masters. 

“Hold her steady now, Ez,” the other man instructs, pausing for a moment in his ministrations. “This last one is going to sting a little bit. I don’t want her to kick either of us.” 

Ezra nods, scratching the meaty juncture of the horses’ neck and shoulder. Her muscles feel warm beneath his hands, and after his earlier work with a curry comb, it almost feels velveteen. “Easy there, girl,” he coos to the horse, patting her firmly and reassuringly while Kanan applies the injection. Given her background, the mare’s immune system needs more support than the rest of the other horses. Part of her regular care involves boosts to nutrition, and today, an especially strong antibiotic. Infection from the wounds would work far too quickly to take any chances. “That’s it!” he says, patting her calmly in reward after Kanan has finished. “Good!” 

Kanan sits back against the rough bale of hay. Ezra releases his gentle hold on Phoenix, and instantly, she is cantering off into the circular paddock. With a sigh, he joins him in sitting there. 

“Nice work,” Kanan praises, wiping his hands on his denim jeans. “You’re really getting the hang of all of this. It won’t be long before I won’t call you my apprentice any longer. Pretty soon, you’ll be my colleague in your own right.” 

Ezra blushes, looking down at his boots. He’s not his birth dad; but to him, Kanan is his father. 

“Thanks Kanan,” he replies, scuffing the heel of his boot in the dirt. “That’s nice of you to say. But you’ll _always_ be my master in this craft.” He hugs his knees to his chest, feeling self-conscious and more than a little pleased at the praise. “Um, anyway. On another topic: do you mind if I ask you about the family meeting?” 

The ranch owner sighs. “Go on then,” he says, not unkindly. “I just _knew_ that you’d be too curious to wait for a couple more hours.” 

Ezra nods gratefully. “Thanks! Okay, first one: are we in trouble?” With a nervous flutter in his stomach, he watches the other, older man take his time to consider. Guessing the answer out of the silence, Ezra pushes forward. “Okay then, what _kind_ of trouble? Are we in the kind that I need to go and prepare my .22 shotgun? Or is it more like the kind where I need to prepare for an arm wrestle?” 

This question makes Kanan sigh heavily. “Arm wrestling probably wouldn’t help,” he chuckles. “But neither would the shotgun, I’m afraid.” 

Taking another deep exhale, Kanan stares out unseeingly at the horse pasture. Ezra watches him, knowing that he must be able to picture the setting within his mind: the shadowy, comforting depths of the barn; the rusted tools, leaning against the paint-peeling sides; the strutting chickens, clucking and balking from the nearby fence; the rich, warm smell of horses, earthy and familiar. He takes a moment to appreciate the scene around him, letting the ordinariness of it calm his rising nerves. 

“So you’re saying it’s not a problem we can _‘bury in the backyard,_ ’ as Hera would put it?” he asks. 

Kanan snorts. He pulls his own legs up too, matching Ezra’s posture by instinct. “No, unfortunately not. In fact, according to Hera, if we don’t meet this whole thing at the head--” he winces, “--we’re very likely going to be in a big spot of trouble.” He turns his unblinking gaze on Ezra. “He’s found out about us. _All_ of us. All of our records, our histories. _Everything_.” 

Ezra starts. It’s been a long time since he’s considered the warrants that Sheriff Pryce put on his name. 

_“Karabast,”_ he swears, echoing his older brother. “Well, that’s not good, is it? But it can’t be that bad. If Hera has put the pieces together, then at least we’re going to be able to put a jump on him.” He watches Kanan shake his head in negation, and the feeling of worry within him rises. “Oh. There’s more to it, then? What, is she afraid that he’s going to use it as blackmail?” The whole idea sounds pretty unpleasant, but they’d handled bigger bullies than Kallus before. 

“Or something worse,” Kanan says grimly. “That information, paired with our unstable finances…” His mouth pulls into a firm line. “...We could be in more danger than just losing the ranch.” 

Ezra raises his eyebrows. For a moment, he can see how the past two years have aged him and weighed upon him. Typically, Kanan is unflappable in his calmness and hopeful expectations for life, even after his disabling injury. Seeing him like this is discouraging, to say the least. “What do you mean?” he asks, not sure if he wants to hear the answer. 

“We could be arrested and tried,” Kanan answers heavily. “We could be separated, and sent out to prisons.” He exhales. “For someone like Zeb, that could mean serving a _lifetime.”_

He feels his eyes widen within his head. Ezra shudders, as though the words have hit him with the impact of ice. “But he never _really_ killed anybody!” he says, feeling horrified. “Even though Zeb probably _should_ have murdered that child-trafficking bastard. You know that he’s innocent; we _both_ know that he took the fall for an Honor Guard member. That’s just Zeb.” 

His heart sinks into his stomach with dread as Kanan shrugs. 

“Doesn’t matter,” his mentor replies quietly. “The justice system really isn’t about justice. You know how corrupt the whole thing is, Ezra: a person looking like _Garazeb Orrelios_ shows up in cuffs, and you think that they’re going to let him just walk out of there?” Kanan’s expression becomes bitter. “There’s no ‘fair and equal treatment’ for people like us. Those jurors get wind of his record, get this chance to pin something long-term unsolved on a local felon, and they’re not going to let something as inconvenient as justice get in their way. I’m telling you, Ezra: if we go walking in, we won’t be crawling back out.” 

Ezra’s stomach churns. He is deeply unsettled by his mentor’s bleak, deadened tone. 

“And it wouldn’t just be your brother, either. Sabine still doesn’t have legal status; Hera’s a known member of what many consider to be a ‘terrorist organization.’ I’ve got my own past with manufacturing and selling drugs; and, if they pick up the charges for Zeb, it’s not going to be good for any of us.” He sighs, shakes his head. “Plus, you’re not thirteen anymore. If Agent Kallus decides to pull something on your burglary papers, your minor status is already forfeit.” 

Ezra resists the urge to hug his arms around his chest for reassurance. 

“So what are we going to do?” he asks Kanan, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “We can’t escape our pasts, or whatever others will say about them.” He looks out at the pasture, trying to draw strength from the sunlight filtering lazily downwards. “Does any of what we’ve been doing out here for the past decade matter to anyone else?” He chews on his lip. “Does _none_ of it? Is there no such thing as second chances?” 

The other man reaches out to pull him in. Ezra fights not to release his tears; he is not a child anymore. Still, he can see moisture on the corner of his mentor’s eyes. 

“Of course it does, Ezra Bridger,” Kanan says gently. “It means the whole _world_ to each one of us.” Ezra drops his face into the taller man’s shoulder, scrunching his eyes and sniffing back tears. “This time out here on the _Ghost_ has been our life; our family; our freedom. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” He sighs heavily. “And no matter what Agent Kallus or his people threaten us with, they can’t take that away from us. It’s intangible: outside of their reach.” His hand squeezes Ezra’s shoulder. “Even if we’re no longer together, we’re _still_ a family. And we’ll survive this.” 

The emotions of fear, dread and anger get the best of him. Kanan rubs the back of his head through crying; and when Ezra finally glaces back up, he sees that his father has also shed tears.

“What’re we gonna do, then?” Ezra asks again. He sniffs, wipes a forearm over his wet eyes. 

“We’re going to do whatever he asks,” Kanan says quietly. “Agent Kallus currently holds all the power. It’s not right: it’s not _fair._ But it’s the truth.” He squeezes Ezra once more, then releases him. “So, if he blackmails us, we just give him what he wants. If it’s the farm: fine. If it’s money: whatever. Long as we can make a deal, as I said: _we’ll survive this.”_

Through the blur of his drying tears, Ezra shakes his head. 

“It shouldn't be like this,” he declares. “We shouldn’t have to pay for all of our past mistakes out of fear. We were desperate, Kanan; we were only doing what we could to get by.” He thinks of Zeb, and he balls his fists. “Some of us didn’t even do that, because of honor.” He feels a new, hot kind of feeling-- _anger_ \--rippling out through him. It burns at his wet, tear-streaked face and clenched fingers. “It’s not right that we’re at Kallus’ mercy. It’s not _right_ that we’ve been doing the best that we could, and that we might just lose everything all over again, just because people feel more comfortable seeing us as criminals.” He feels his hands shaking. “And the _worst_ part? We don’t even know that he’ll stay quiet afterwards! We might give him what he wants, and then, he’ll just go right ahead and turn us in!” 

To his heartbreak, Kanan nods. He reaches out, puts a steadying hand on Ezra’s shoulder. 

“You’re right,” he says. “About Kallus; the system; the danger; your _anger._ ” He pats the hand, then uses it to push himself up to standing. Reaching out for Ezra, he helps him up, too. “And that’s why we’re having a family meeting. We’ve got to put our heads together, and see what comes out from all of this. Hera tried to get out in front of him with a softened story. But he’s got the details; he’ll find the rest out soon enough.” He brushes hay off of his shoulders, then Ezra’s. “So make sure to bring that anger right along with you. It might just come up with a few good ideas.” 

Ezra gives him a watery smile. _What would I do without you, Kanan? What would any of us?_

“Like murder chickens?” he asks, referencing the first time that Agent Kallus had arrived on their doorstep. This, of all things, makes the pair of them laugh. Kanan slaps him on the back. Wiping away another tear with his finger. 

“Like murder chickens,” he affirms, chuckling softly. 

* * *

They’re still sitting together talking at the table when Agent Kallus arrives in his fancy car. 

It’s nearly sundown, edging on too late to drive, so Ezra is not sure what the man is thinking. _Does he assume that he will have a place to stay?_ He wonders, watching the golden-haired man clamber out of his car. _Does he think that he’s able to just use my brother and extort my family, and that he’d still be welcomed back here with open arms?_

Since the harrowing conversation with Kanan, his opinion of the man had rapidly dropped. After their family meeting, the situation had only gotten more grim. Zeb had sat through most of it in sullen silence, his arms crossed over his chest while Hera did most of the talking. After Kanan joined in--sharing much of what he’d shared already with Ezra--the other kids had entered the conversation. Unlike Ezra, Sabine had been filled with rage at the get-go. She’d nearly turned over the table when Hera told her about their shop conversation, and she’d gone and stormed to look out the back door when Kanan had shared his blackmail suspicions. _(Ezra suspects that her anger comes from a place of hurt; not only had she been rooting for Zeb’s sake, but she’d also taken a subtle enjoyment of his presence after the rodeo)._ Ezra had mostly shouted; Kanan had kept his voice low. Hera had been stubborn about her convictions, and Sabine had been ready to take out the trash. But throughout it all, Garazeb Orrelios had merely listened with a grim silence. “S’fine,” he’d assured Kanan glumly when the man had put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not like I’ve known him for very long anyway. Like I said: he’s _too pretty._ Far too much to be trusted.” 

But the look on Zeb’s face when Kallus arrives is enough to tell Ezra that he’d only been _trying._

Sadness weighs heavy on every part of his brother’s features--around his eyes, on his mouth, bending his back low--and it makes Ezra want to reach out and hug the man. Instead, he swallows and looks with fierce determination at the figure making their way to the door. And _still_ with the gall to wear Zeb’s purple hat. 

At the short knock, Kanan rises to greet him. “Agent Kallus,” he says, gesturing towards the table. “We’ve just been talking about you. Please, pull up a chair. We’ve got a few things to talk about.”

From where he is standing in the doorway, the IRS agent freezes. If Ezra is not mistaken, he looks like a deer caught in the headlights. It would almost be funny, if their family’s livelihood and survival wasn’t on the line: his rigid posture, his tilting hat, his golden eyes jumping around the kitchen. When the eyes land on him for a moment, he resists the urge to raise a hand and waggle malicious fingers at him. _Must be a sight,_ Ezra thinks, watching the man uncoil from his position. _To walk into a house, and have everybody who’d been so friendly staring at you like you’re a viper._ Kallus removes his hat, stepping in and taking out the drawn chair. _Too bad. Not my fault that you’re a snake._

Settling in at the table, Kallus clears his throat. He looks deeply uncomfortable, and a blush scattered his pale, freckled cheeks. 

“I apologize,” he says, voice holding none of its typical smoothness. “I must have missed something. Did I happen to come by at a bad time?” when nobody answers, he folds his hands. Ezra sees that the pulse in his neck is jumping. “Ah. I _must_ have. Seeing as we’re in the present circumstances.” 

Sabine is the first one to break. Ever the firecracker, she lashes out and strikes a fist down on the table. 

“Why are you trying to tear our family apart, Agent Kallus?!” she snarls. Ignoring the chorus of concerned voices, she rises up and kicks back her chair. “What did they give you, in exchange for your soul? That fancy-ass _car?”_ she stomps a boot on the ground. “The money to polish that god-awful _mustache?!”_

Kallus raises two hands in alarm. One of them, Ezra notices, twitches towards his bearded chops. _Odd,_ he thinks. _Today, they look more mussed._

“I-I can assure you that nobody has paid me to be here,” he says, a bead of sweat on his brow. “I run by commission, yes. But I won’t be seeing any part of that money until I return back to my office with this case completed. If you’re wondering why I stopped by at this late hour, it’s actually because I wanted to tell Garazeb--” 

“-- _Save_ it!” Sabine snaps. She reaches out, puts a protective hand on her brother. “You’ve already hurt him enough.” 

Ezra watches Kallus’ eyes drop from her face, shifting over to the _Ghost Town’_ s largest member. His gaze flickers up and down Zeb’s features, as though he is looking for something there. In the stony silence that follows, it doesn’t seem as though he’s found it. 

“...Look,” the agent says, eyes darting back to Sabine, then falling on Hera and Kanan. “I know that we got off on the wrong foot. And I know that I’m here under unpleasant circumstances. But I’m not your enemy! My job is to help people manage and balance their finances. I’m here to help you sort things out with the _Ghost,_ not to take it away.” 

“ _Yeah?”_ Finally, Zeb speaks up. The whole room goes silent. “Is that really true, Agent Kallus?” 

A look of tension moves between them. Presence acknowledged by the other man, Kallus’s golden eyes fix upon Zeb’s face. Ezra stares at Zeb, too: watching the way that his jaw has tightened; that his eyebrows are furrowed; that he looks half a step from growling. 

“Is _that_ what ya told me, back in the mountains?” 

There is a long, terrible silence. Ezra hadn’t yet heard the story from Zeb; _nobody_ had heard, since he’d just returned that morning. He can guess, though, from the way that he’d seen his brother walking that something intimate had gone down. Earlier today, he’d even celebrated. But now, as he watches the look that passes between them, he wonders what exactly had been said. If he had to put the pieces together, it would be that Kallus had admitted his less-than-honorable intentions.

“...I came here,” Kallus says, dropping his gaze and his voice. “Because I wanted to talk to you about that. I wanted…” his hands twitch, then his fingers knot together. “See, I had this idea, that….” 

Whatever idea the IRS agent had, Ezra doesn’t get to find out. Because Hera Syndulla stands too, pointing a finger at the man. “I told you,” she says, her voice cold with fury. “That you should stay away. You’re lucky that you’re not six-feet under the cattle pasture right now.” Kallus flinches, and she gestures out the window. “Let’s get to the point, Kallus, so that we can all get on with our lives: name the price of your blackmail. You price it, we’ll pay it.” 

Kallus stares. Ezra watches him, wondering why the man looks closer to tears than to smug success. _Isn’t this what he wanted?_ He wonders. _Isn’t this why he came here in the first place?_ Perhaps the combination of the full spectres is really enough for intimidation. 

“...I’m not...looking for blackmail,” he says softly. 

_“Bullshit,”_ Hera says. Kallus looks up at her, and she puts her hands on her hips. “I told you the information that you wanted, Kallus. And you told me that you’d get out of here.” She glares down at him. “Seeing as you can’t seem to take a hint, I can only assume that you’re here for intimidation. _Fine,”_ she says, “you hold all of the cards. You win. But _don’t_ take my family.” 

Kanan reaches up, puts a hand on her waist. She doesn’t brush him off. “ _Don’t_ take away my family,” she echoes. 

There is another long and terrible silence. Kallus keeps lacing and unlacing his fingertips at the table. His mouth trembles; he looks as though he wants to say something, but that he cannot work up the courage. Or, maybe that he continues to think better of it. Finally, clearing his voice and attempting to speak in that polished, smooth tone, he says: “Very well, Ms. Syndulla. Mr. Jarrus.” He looks around the table, nodding at each of them. “As you are, unfortunately, correct. I was indeed sent here to collect your oil land--or money, or both. And I was to do it at whatever cost.”

Hera nods, and Kanan sighs heavily. From across the table, still standing, Sabine balls her fists. Ezra glances at Zeb, but his face is blank and impassive. 

“My intention for coming out here tonight at this very late hour was so that I could confess to you my wrongdoings; and, to alert you of Sheriff Pryce’s awareness.” He flinches, as though expecting the others to yell. “I have not yet made any kind of report. Not to the local authorities, nor to my superiors. I do not intend to; I do not intend, in fact, to finish my investigation.” He looks up, eyes tired and haggard. “Earlier this afternoon, I resigned my job as a special-unit investigator. As of today, I am unemployed.” 

_This_ time, the silence that fills the room is awkward. It is just as tense as before, but it holds the threads of confusion and discomfort. 

_What?!_ Ezra thinks, not sure that he wants to believe him. _What, this guy? No way. What even for?!_ He looks the man up and down, trying to see if there is any deception in him. Still disbelieving, he turns to look at Zeb. _No. He didn’t switch sides...for Zeb?_ The possibility of it is ludicrous, but it is taking hold of him now like a wildfire. Ezra feels his eyes widening, and he wants to say something, but he can still see the others’ resistance. 

Unfortunately, it seems that Kallus does, too. 

“As of today, I intend to be a man of my word,” he says. “And as you did indeed ask me to go away and never come back, I will now take my leave and vacate the ranch. I shall understand if you never want me to shadow the _Ghost Town’s_ doorway again, and I thank you for any and all of your hospitality.” Rising from his chair, Kallus raises a hand to his head. He sets Zeb’s purple hat on the table. “I bid a good evening to all of you. Particularly the masters of the house, Mr. Jarrus andMs. Syndulla. And, to...” He turns his honey-gold, long-lashed eyes on the cowboy sitting at the far end of the table. His mouth twitches. When he speaks, he is choked up. “to _...Garazeb.”_ Turning, the former agent strides out of the door.

And no one speaks until long after his tail lights have vanished into the darkness of the winding mountains. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so no smut this chapter. And maybe no comfort, either. But: please hold in there! Its' gonna all end well, I promise!!!


	16. Garazeb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeb pines after a man that he wants but he cannot have. Then: he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, just couldn't leave ya'll pining like that. So: yeehaw, #smuttytimesahead!!!

* * *

_Garazeb_

* * *

_Don’t think about him,_ Zeb tells himself. 

He’s in the barn, working on daily chores with Sabine. It’s late afternoon, and it’s been nearly three and half weeks since he’d seen Alexsandr Kallus walk out their door. _Three weeks,_ his mind informs him, _since you wrapped your arms around his panting chest.Three weeks since you held him against your skin.Three weeks since you learned the taste of his mouth, the heat of his insides._ Pushing back the jagged, intrusive thoughts, he steps forward and shoves the thick bale of hay. _Three weeks since he left me here. Just like I always knew that he would._

If he was telling himself the truth, he’d honestly expected these actions from Kallus. He’s lucky it hadn’t been _worse._

Because, once again, Zeb had picked an unavailable partner. And because, once again, Zeb had been left here to bear the shameful embarrassment of knowing that everybody who mattered in his life had seen exactly how bad he could make choices. _Lusting after someone who is actively trying to hurt your family?_ Zeb thinks, shaking his head. _That’s a new low. Lower even than getting that blurry tattoo on yer ass._

Hoisting the bale, Zeb grunts and powers upward with his legs. His thighs are burning from the sensation of lifting, but _damn,_ if it doesn’t feel good for his body to _hurt_. 

Sabine shoves the last of the bales beside him. She’d been the one driving and unloading the truck, and they’ve nearly arrived at their finish. There’s plenty of the stuff to re-bed horses and cattle; maybe even enough to treat some of the gentler ones to a hand-fed meal. Huffing, the purple-haired woman plops down beside him, making her tiredness known on her expression. “Zeb,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “I wish that you would’ve just used the bailer for this. You don’t have to wrangle _everything_ tough by yourself.” 

Zeb senses the hidden argument behind the comment and waves her away. _I’m doing fine. I don’t want to talk about Kallus._

“Feels good to work with my hands,” he replies instead, making his voice light as possible. “Seems like we’re ‘bout done here. Why don’t ya go ahead and find out where Ezra is, see if he needs a little assistance with anythin’? I think I can handle the rest of this.” He gestures to the barn, where he’ll be spreading out another fresh layer of hay. It could easily be one-person work, and not two. 

“Okay,” she sighs. Reaching up, she pecks a kiss on her brother’s cheek. “Don’t stay out too long.” 

Zeb grunts, not really committing to an answer. He’s been staying out later and later than usual doing his chores. Sometimes, it’s to avoid sitting at the full dinner table, and looking into the other spectres’ concerned faces; sometimes, it’s because he doesn’t have the energy to put on a good face, and he just wants to be angry, sad or disappointed about how things had happened with Kallus. Today feels more like one of the latter. 

_Don’t think about it,_ Zeb tells himself firmly. With a sigh, he turns to find a sturdy rake. 

But it’s difficult _not_ to think about him. Even though it had only been around two weeks, Agent Kallus--no, _Kallus_ \--had made himself into a regular presence within Zeb’s routine. In the evening, while he’s getting ready for bed, he’ll look at the clothing that he’d borrowed to the man for that one and only night he’d stayed and slept at the _Ghost._ In the morning, he’d wake up and recall sharing a narrow hotel bed with Kallus: their bodies, although battered and sore, still tangled together, sharing the smell and the texture of the nighttime endeavours. There was even a small and special ache that he’d get in his chest, when he’d look out at the pasture in the late morning, thinking of how they’d gone riding on Lira. 

_It was never meant to happen,_ Zeb tells himself solemnly. _You fucked up, by opening up anyone of those chances. Even the blind man could see: Kallus was only ever your nemesis._

But that wasn’t necessarily true. Kanan Jarrus had _liked_ Kallus, even while he had been an arrogant nuisance. He’d asked the man to get to know the spectres, and to sit with him at the table and share more than one meal. When he’d invited Kallus along to the rodeo, he knows that the others had enjoyed their time; each time he’d looked up from the bull pen, he’d see them all talking and smiling. Even _Hera_ had grudgingly expressed affection, musing about his interest in auto mechanics. 

_That doesn’t mean that you meant anything to him,_ he thinks. _In the end, he was only ever after the money. He never wanted you, or your family. He just wanted your land._

Garazeb sighs, digging his pitchfork into the nearest bale. He savors the feeling of his arms beginning to burn, and he feels the shirt straining against his back. Sweat builds up on his underarms and core, making the clothing stick to him with sweat. He flexes and arches, pitching a forkful of hay into the air. 

When it lands, he hears a muffled, “ _Oh!”_

Startling, Zeb turns.

It takes him a moment to blink and clear his eyes, just because he isn’t sure of what he is seeing. Standing there in the barn, with a nest of straw sticking out of his sandy hair, Kallus stands there staring at him. His golden eyes are wide, and seem to be watering--perhaps from the hay, falling over his shoulders and all around him. Zeb must have hit him squarely in the too-pretty face. 

“H-hello, Garazeb,” he says, voice wavering. 

Zeb sways, holding onto his pitchfork for balance. _Did I fall asleep here?_ He wonders. _It’s been so many late nights, and so much exertion...maybe Sabine was right, and I need a break._ But when he rubs at his eyes and blinks, Kallus is still there. He’s still watching him with that tentative, awkward smile on his face. It reminds Zeb of the look that he’d given him when they’d woken up together: bodies entwined, hearts beating together against flushed ribs. 

“Kallus,” he says. Zeb gathers himself, staring back at the man. “Kallus, what’re ya…” he looks the man up and down, seeing that it is _really_ him. “...What’re ya _doin’_ here?” 

The former agent smiles weakly. Zeb notices that he is wearing blue jeans, but also, that he is wearing a formal dress shirt. It’s an odd, but nice combo: the perfect balance between his former professionalism, and his more recent days on the _Ghost Town_ ranch. 

“I’m, ah, here to speak with you, actually,” Kallus replies. He appears nervous. He reaches up to tug at the laces of his bolo-tie. “But if this a bad time, then I completely understand. I’ll come backI--” 

“--No, _no!””_ Zeb says urgently. He winces at the desperation in the tone of his voice, but he sees the other man mirror it back. “No, I mean, uh…” he looks around, rubbing one arm behind his head. “Now’s a _fine_ time. Yeah. I can make time. Sure. Why don’t ya pull up a....bale,” he invites. With his other hand, he points to one of the golden-blonde squares. 

Shyly, Kallus smiles and nods his head. He walks over to Zeb, taking the nearest bale. “Garazeb,” he begins, voice soft and cautious, “I owe you an apology.” 

Zeb waves a massive hand. In his mind, in his _fantasies,_ he’s pictured this so many times: Kallus approaching him, soft and contrite, asking for the impossible task of forgiveness. But Zeb had already given it to him; somehow, for some reason, he finds that he’s let go of his hate for the man. All he wants to see is him come back: to see him make good on that wish to be a better man, and to offer that he comes along as an option. 

“It’s over for me,” Zeb says gruffly. “Back there, what you said on Bahryn: it’s already over.” 

Kallus blinks, looking surprised. Zeb feels a flush rise in his cheeks. _Karabast. Not smooth, Zeb._ He should have allowed the man to speak for himself. He should have let him take his time. Perhaps he wasn’t even here to ask for forgiveness. Maybe, he was here to apologize for leading Zeb on in the first place. 

“That’s incredibly generous,” Kallus replies, “but I don’t need you to do that.” He folds his hands, reminding Zeb of that time he’d sat at the tense table. “I don’t require anything from you.” 

This time, _Zeb_ blinks. _Why are you here?_ He wonders, feeling his heartbeat rise within his chest. 

As if Kallus had heard his question, he answers: “I’m here because I... _want_ to be. I want to try this again. Without me, as an agent. Without any strings attached.” He looks up, eyes brimming with startling longing. “That night we spent together Zeb, I--” his breath catches inside of his chest. “--I feel embarrassed to say it, but, I’ve _never_ felt so cared for. So... _loved.”_

He blushes, turning his face down. 

“I know that it might not have meant the same things to you, but I cannot forget the way we were together that night. If there’s anything that could convince you…” He looks back up, hopefulness shining in those golden eyes. “If there’s any way that you’d let me try again...I’d really be honored to go on a proper date. Because, I--” He swallows thickly. “--I really, _really_ like you, Garazeb.” He bites his lower lip. “And I think that... _maybe..._ you just might like me, too. Even after all of this.” 

Garazeb Orrelios stares at the other man. 

Without any kind of preparation, Kallus had walked into his life. He’d caused problems and strife for their family, but he’d also awoken the daydream in Zeb that he really _could_ have a real partner. All of those nights alone in the past three weeks had left him thinking: thinking that, maybe, he _could_ deserve something. If not Kallus, then somebody else. Maybe it wouldn’t be the person that he ached for--maybe it wouldn’t be the one that had broken his heart--but maybe, at some point, he could settle down. Add to their _Ghost Town_ family. 

He’d never imagined--only wanted--that Kallus could _actually_ be that very one and the same man.

The long silence between them must be making the other man feel discouraged. Kallus, vulnerable without his formal attire and Garazeb’s hat, wrings his hands where he sits on the other hay bale. “Say something?” he asks. When Zeb rises and walks towards him, he flinches slightly. “If you’re mad, I’ll go. You don’t have to answer with _yes._ I can--” 

He feels the man gasp beneath his hands. Tilting Kallus’ chin upward, sliding a hand down his neck, Zeb leans down and draws him into a kiss. 

“ _Zeb,”_ Kallus groans softly. 

He breaks their lips apart, gazing up at Zeb yearningly with those wide, golden eyes. Zeb can see his own reflection--flush-cheeked, wet-eyed, heavy-handed--mirrored back at him. He feels just about as wrecked as the image tells. 

_“Kal,”_ he agrees, breathing ragged. 

Pulling the other man up, Zeb presses the lines of their bodies together. He hears the other man shudder and moan when he reaches behind, gathering a handful of firm, jean-clad asscheeks into his hands. He walks them backward, pulling the former agent with him by the anchor of his grasp, keeping their hips together. He feels the bluntness of the wall slam against him; the softness of the raked hay bumping up against his calves; the _hardness_ of the other man’s erection, pushing earnestly against his through the seams of their pants. 

_He wants this,_ Zeb realizes, tugging the man downward.. _He wants...me. Not the farm, not the money. Just me: Garazeb._

Gathering the other man closer towards him, Zeb draws him into another full kiss. This one is even _more_ heated than the first: it’s a longing, _desperate_ slide of tongue, teeth and lips together, reaching further and deeper into one another. He groans, feeling Kallus’ chest shudder against him. On his lips, he swears he recalls the taste of moonshine. 

“C-can we be alone, please?” Kallus asks breathlessly. His mouth is opening in a slight pant, and the shine of Zeb’s kiss has already made those pale, lovely lips red. “I’d--I mean, if you’ll--” 

Zeb nods, pushing himself up to standing. Leaving Kallus in the blanket of hay, he hurries over towards the barn doors and slams them shut, locking them from behind. It isn’t perfect: sunlight filters through the slats, revealing it to be _far_ less than sturdy or soundproof. But it _does_ request privacy. And at this moment, that is all that he feels they need. 

“If you’ll have _me,”_ Zeb replies, turning towards the man and looking down. 

Kallus looks like a _feast._ He’s always been easy upon the eyes, but gazing at him now--sprawled out in the hay, and _wanting_ him--sets Zeb’s heart to pounding. The former agent is spread out on the ground, his legs slightly parented, his pants showing interest. There is a red spot on his mouth and chin where Garazeb had gripped him and held him for the first kiss; there is _also_ a splotch of red on his neck, bearing the fingernail marks of his hands. Wanting to blush every _inch_ of that skin, Zeb steps forward, dropping down to his knees. 

“If I could ever be so fortunate,” Kallus whispers, his freckled throat working. 

Zeb bows forward, hovering just above the other man’s lips. “It’s just yer luck,” he teases, recalling Kallus’ drunken words from the back of his pickup. “C’mon, Kallus: there’s a whole lot left off from back where we started.” He replies to those plush, searching lips by sealing the set of his own over them, feeling the brush of their wet tongues together. 

When they break apart, panting, Kallus asks in a trembling voice: “Please call me _Alexsandr_.”

Zeb hums in agreement. He gathers the other man into his arms, rolls him over so that they are both lying upon their sides. “Alexsandr,” he murmurs, bringing one of his large hands to rest upon his clothed hips. “ _Alexsandr,”_ he says again, tasting the other man’s name on his mouth as their lips slide together again. 

They remain there for some time--lying next to one another, their restless hands roaming and stroking. When he feels Kallus’ hips buck slightly against him, Zeb levels him with a heated gaze.

“You feelin’ up fer a roll in the hay’, Alexsandr?” he asks, bringing the movement of their hips together. Kallus gasps, and his face flushes with rosy pleasure. Biting down on his lip, the other man nods hurriedly and makes a whimpering sound. “Cause I kinda feel like doin’ some sorta celebratin’. And it’s one of our local traditions.” 

Kallus hastily reaches downward, fumbling to unbutton his fly. “ _Yes,”_ he urges, chest heaving as he pulls the seam open. “Yes, _yes,_ I’d like that very much. Zeb.” 

Glowing with disbelieving pleasure, Garazeb Orrelios pulls the other man towards him. He keeps his hands on Kallus while he unbuttons his shirt, exposing the breadth of his chest to the open air. He keeps his hands on him when the man reaches up to undo his own shirt, unthreading the laces of the bolo tie and working open the pearly, white buttons. He keeps his hands on him, kneading into the warm, ample flesh as the other man knots his hands into his hair and _kisses_ him, burying his burning tongue deep into Zeb’s throat. 

Feeling the tug of Kallus’ fingers through his loose hair, he rumbles and rolls their hips together. 

“How do you wanna do this?” he asks, eyes wandering over Kallus’ peachy, peaked nipples. “I know that yer leg ain’t fully healed. But, being as yer no longer wearing that cast…” he trails off, lifting one thigh to throw a leg over him. _Just to be that much closer._ “...well, it opens up all _kind_ of possibilities.” 

The leaking, cotton-clad organ between them leaps with encouragement. 

Kallus gasps, gripping tighter onto Garazeb’s hair. “Just open me up for now” he murmurs against Zeb’s lips. “When I’m strong again, I’ll show you the _fullness_ of my talents.” He lowers his hand from his head, pressing Zeb’s open palm into his groin. 

Feeling the thickness of that hard, weeping organ, Zeb groans and closes his eyes in anticipation. 

_“Noted,”_ he growls, gently squeezing Kallus’ clothed member inside of his fist.“S’not often I get propositioned like that.” Indeed, heat coils within his belly as he thinks of Kallus entering him. “But fer now, yeah: I like yer idea. Let’s get you on top, and do some bull ridin’.” 

Kallus’ blushing face breaks into a grin. _He really is handsome,_ Zeb thinks, a bit starstruck. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs in return. Placing two hands on either one of Zeb’s shoulders he rolls the other man onto his back. With only the smallest of flinches, he hoists his bad leg over Garazeb’s waist. Both of their flies have been already opened, and he takes a moment just sitting there thrusting to frot their aching members together. With each movement, the pre-sodden fabric pulls wetly between them, adding a feeling of texture to friction. 

Groaning, Zeb throws his head back. He is already panting, and his hands are gripping onto Kallus as hard as one of the rodeo bulls. 

“Thanks for listening to me earlier,” Kallus says, dropping his hands. From between them, he pulls out their leaking cocks, bright-pinkish flesh meeting the dripping brown-red. “Thanks for giving me--for giving _us--_ this chance.” He strokes their erections together, hands framing either side of the gathered members. 

Zeb grins back at him, huffing and bucking his pleasure. 

“T-thanks fer comin’ back,” he says, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I didn’t--I didn’t realize that you were actually-- _f-fuuuuckk----”_ language, it seems, is going to escape him. He rolls his head back, sucking in air through his mouth, trying his best to gather his sense. “Alright, Alexsandr: we better get ya stretchin’. Otherwise, I’m gonna come before you can even get it in.” 

Kallus smiles, shooting a look of confidence back at him. It reminds Zeb of the arrogant, former agent; except _this_ one belongs to him. And his sandy hair is falling out, loose, in his golden eyes. 

“Best get a move on, then,” Alexsandr Kallus agrees. He pauses in assisting their frottage, reaching behind himself instead. Zeb aids him in removing his pants, then in drawing his underwear off of his legs. Kallus’ body is _glorious,_ just like the rest of him: strong, freckled thighs; smooth, muscled stomach; heavy, tightened sack. 

Zeb reaches out, running a finger between his parted legs. Kallus gasps, squirming against the touch pressed over his entrance. 

“D’don’t do _that,”_ he groans, visibly fucking down on another finger. “Weren’t you the one that said that you _wanted_ to do some bull riding together? If you make me come first, it won’t be nearly as enjoyable of an experience--” he is cut off, keening shrilly, as Zeb wraps his lips around his bobbing cock. “Th-that’s _wicked!”_ He gasps, pumping the hand behind him all the more urgently. _“Fuck,_ Garazeb: _FUCK!”_

Zeb blinks, tongue swirling around lazily. Kallus’ cock tastes salty and rich in his mouth--like the scent of wood-smoke whisky cologne, and something at-home. _Familiar._

“Y-you!” Kallus whimpers, caught between thrusting open himself on his hands and fucking his way into Garazeb’s mouth. “You. Just. _Hold on_ for a minute.” He groans with relief as Zeb’s lips pop away from the flushed, hardened cock, leaving a long string of liquid suspended between them. It’s with satisfaction that he gazes up at the other man, already looking as though he’s reached his greatest moments of pleasure. “ _Fuck,_ Garazeb. Alright: I think that I’m ready.” 

Ever in the habit of doubting, Zeb double-checks. He stretches out a hand, adding one of his own, thick forefingers to the mix.

 _“Karabast!”_ Kallus yells, already split open around three of his own. Grinning at the way the man hollers and bucks, Zeb greedily gathers him into his hand. “Fuck _fuck!_ I guess now I know what _that_ word means!” Garazeb laughs, pushing himself onto one elbow. He watches the former agent for a little while, relishing his needy writhing and moaning. 

When Kallus reaches a point of properly _wrecked_ , he finally takes some pity upon him. Throwing out the worst pickup line possible, Zeb pats his opened thighs. “Save a horse, ride a cowboy?” he offers. 

( _Somewhere, God bless him, Roy is probably cheering)._

Gasping, Kallus clambers upon him. He straddles Zeb, pulling out his pulsating and dripping erection. _“Fuck,_ yes!” he groans. With a shaking sigh, Kallus lowers his body on top of Zeb. The stretch must have been adequate, because he takes more of his shaft into himself than the first time. Moaning with anticipation, Kallus shifts side to side and wriggles himself farther down on the member. “And if you would’ve led with that from the beginning, I _still_ would’ve said yes.”

Garazeb grins, locking his hands on the other man’s ass. With the force of his shaking arms and shoulders, he pumps the man up and down.“Then we were just wastin’ our time,” he growls. “Hold on to me, _Alexsandr:_ yer goin’ for it.”

With the head-spinning feeling of hot, wet muscles gripping his shaft, Zeb drives into Kallus with all of his might. 

If he tried, Zeb could not have painted a more beautiful picture. Stripes of sunlight filter in from around and above, illuminating hazy, drifting dander of seeds and flowers. All around them are the golden-brown colors of hay: the sweet-smelling grasses, the familiar mus of the stable. Above him, Alexsandr is riding and pounding. His beautiful, peak-nipped chest is heaving, and sweat rolls down his gulping neck as he gasps for air. His shoulders, still clothed with his open shirt, tremble; as he throws his head back and yells, the fabric gathers, falling around his forearms. 

“ _Take. Me,”_ Kallus growls, blond hair flying wildly in the air with their pounding. “That’s right. _Take me._ Take me _home_ . I am _yours_.” 

Something fragile within Zeb’s heart shatters at these words. Hips spasming, he is digging his fingernails into Kallus’ flesh, spurting into him with searing-hot, jerking jets of spend. Crying out, he bows his head towards the other man, feeling Kallus hands threading into his hair. He rides out the fullness of his orgasm, hips stuttering and growing more still as he reaches the end of the release. 

“T-that--” Zeb whispers hoarsely. “That was--how did you _know--I needed to--hear--”_

Kallus shifts off of him. Zeb watches through tear-blurred eyes as the other man reaches between his parted legs, gathering the ropes Zeb’s cum that fall from his loosened hole into his hand. With white droplets falling between his fingertips, Kallus jerks his hand forward and begins restlessly pulling his own erection off. It only takes seconds, and then he has joined Zeb--raining hot, heavy circles of spend upon Zeb’s dark, bared chest. It glistens there, stark against his curling hairs. 

“ _You,”_ Kallus gasps. He flops forward, apparently exhausted, and Zeb catches his weight like a ragdoll. “You. You and _me._ We’re meant. To be. _Together.”_

Spattered with their mutual spend, tangled with their limbs together, Kallus falls into his chest. He scoots close enough to press their lips together, and Garazeb responds eagerly in turn. The wet, light slickness of his mouth feels like pillow-softness after the pleasured crush of their bodies together. If he hadn’t been so fully and thoroughly spent already, Zeb would have found himself hard again at the gentleness of the touch. 

_“‘Meant to be’, ‘destined,’”_ Zeb snorts, shaking his head. Kallus blinks at him questioningly, and he presses his sweating forehead to the other man. “I don’ really believe any of that kinda thing, Alexsandr,” he says. Kallus looks hurt, but he kisses him into a smile. “Life’s too strange for any of that. But it doesn’t mean that I’m not _thankful_ for this,” he says, stroking the man’s lips with his thumb. “Or that I’d trade it for anything in the world.” 

With a watery grin of reassurance, Kallus laces his fingers with his. Zeb gazes at the other man, drinking in the beauty of his appearance. Feeling the sensation of their bodies entwined. Savoring the notion of loving someone, and being loved in return. He inhales and exhales deeply, taking in the familiar aroma of the barn around him (and the new, becoming-familiar promise of Kallus.) He feels deeply content in a way that he hasn't in years. He feels settled, as though something lost has finally been found again. Stroking his hands through Kallus' golden hair, he gazes into the other man's eyes. A soft smile plays across his lips.

“For the record," Zeb whispers softly, "I’d like to put in a personal thanks for that batch of moonshine.” 

And when they kiss again, it's the taste of sour-sweet rhubarb liqueur and fresh, pine-wood forest. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50,000 prior and I hope that the sexy payoff was worth it!


	17. Sabine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only fitting that Sabine is trusted with the epilogue in this AU, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, sweet and to the point! But don't worry: there's still a smut encore for the next, final chapter.

* * *

_Sabine_

* * *

Whooping and raising a hand in the air, Sabine celebrates her brother Zeb’s victory. It’s been another outstanding rodeo; then again, nearly _all_ of them have been, since Alexandr Kallus had joined in to watch them. 

Underneath the bright, shining lights of the outdoor stadium, the _Ghost Town_ family crew gathered to watch their tallest ranch-hand give the bull riding competition his very best. Tonight had been another great show: Zeb had been given one of the orneriest bulls, and he’d made an impressive performance of holding on tight. All in all, he’d scored a winning 97: nearly the very best score ever seen in this ring. Now, under the bellowing speakers and waving hands, she watches her brother approaching the stands. Zeb swaggers back to them with his chest thrown out; sweat shines on his forehead, and one of his plush lips is split open and bloody. There’s a slight limp to his strut, and his old, purple cowboy hat is looking a bit worse for wear. He looks happy, but tired. 

None of this stops his boyfriend from throwing himself over the fence. 

Sabine grins as she watches an eager Alexsandr Kallus be swept up into Garazeb’s arms. It’s not as though the former agent is small-- _Z_ eb, strong as he is, still staggers a bit- _-_ but he’s hoisted into the air as though his body is light as a feather. Gone are the days of Kallus’ too-fancy clothes and slicked-back hair: now, he just as often wears one of his partner’s torn, faded shirts. These days, Kallus’ golden eyes glow behind loose-hanging bangs. His pale skin is darkened and freckled from time under the sun, and he’s added some healthy weight around the middle. 

It looks good on him. Just about as good as the expression of delight on Zeb’s face, when Kallus throws his arms around the other man’s neck, and meets their lips in a hearty kiss. 

Sabine never would have predicted things to end up like this. If several months ago someone had told her that IRS Agent Kallus would quit his job, sell his car, and use those funds to pay off the debts of the _Ghost Town_ ranch, she’d never believe them. And if they told her that Kallus, still unsatisfied with the injustice of the world, would move into town and start up his own financial consulting business—Fulcrum Advocacy Trio—she would have shaken her head in disbelief. 

But it was all true, and more. 

Despite Hera’s ominous threats, the penitent man had returned to the ranch. Along with his new business, he’d started helping out Hera in her auto-mechanic shop, and he’d quickly become a regular fixture. He and Zeb had grown close, and then, started officially and publicly dating. And then, after several months, the _Ghost_ just didn’t seem _right_ without Kallus. When Zeb had asked his new boyfriend if he’d like to move in, nobody within their family had batted an eyelash. 

The rest, as they say, is history. 

In Sabine’s opinion, she’s never seen her brother so happy and well. The lines around his eyes are still there, but now, it’s because of his ongoing laughter. His shoulders are still stooped and tired from work, but they also have strong, freckled arms frequently wrapped around them: massaging his back, kissing the side of his neck, asking _‘how are you?’_ and stating _‘you are my favorite.’_ The addition of Kallus to Zeb’s life has been nothing less than extraordinary. With the other man’s presence, Zeb has seemed to grow into a lighter, more playful, more content being. It makes the heart within Sabine’s chest swell. 

And he’s not the only one who seems to be doing well. Sabine looks at the people around her, drinking in the sight of her beloved family. 

Under the brilliant lights, Ezra wolf-whistles at his smooching brother. The lanky, teenage boy is rapidly growing into a strong man, with his long limbs firming into strong muscles. If he keeps growing at this rate, she suspects, he’ll easily be as tall as Zeb and Kallus. Next to him stand Kanan and Hera--and they are _holding hands._ Apparently, the blooming of love in Zeb’s life has been infectious: Kanan and Hera seem to be healing together. These days, Hera is almost always around. She smiles more easily, and laughs more frequently. Her singing is just as bad as ever, but now, she’s allowing herself to make music with Kanan. Sabine’s favorite part of any night is coming back from the field to find the pair of them sitting, boots off, upon the front porch: Hera warbling out a tune, Kanan plucking at his old guitar. 

There are other welcome changes about the _Ghost Town,_ too. 

It seems as though Kallus has brought along a community with him. Zeb’s always been more of a shy, introverted man, so the inclusion of several new faces about the ranch were a surprise to their whole family. However, it’s not unusual for them to see a few regulars: Roy _(and his new flame, Gregor)_ , stopping for rhubarb moonshine and cards; Eli _(and his odd, quiet husband, Thrawn),_ coming for dinner and spirited matches of chess. The company is all new for Sabine, but she finds that she really quite likes having them there. It turns out that people can be actually _pleasant,_ so long as they are people who are trustworthy, and have a sense of compassion and honor. 

Sabine smiles as she watches Kallus and Zeb make their way up the stands. Their fingers are entwined together, and Kallus has once again stolen his partner’s purple hat. 

“Did you see him?!” Kallus says, raising and squeezing Zeb’s hand. “Did you see the way that he _mastered_ that animal?” His cheeks are flushed, his golden eyes dancing. He looks as though _he_ was the one participating in the athletic challenge, rather than watching breathlessly from the stands. “I couldn’t _believe_ how well you rode. Frankly, I think that the judges did you an injustice, not giving you the full 100--” 

_“--Easy,_ there, Alex,” Zeb interrupts with a chuckle. No matter his words, his eyes betray his delighted pride. “They were all here. They’ve seen it before.” 

“Not like _this,”_ Kallus protests. His mouth is open for more, but Zeb gives their connected hands a wriggling shake. Sabine watches a look of silent teasing pass between them before they seperate, and the playfulness of it makes her heart ache with tender appreciation. 

As their hands separate, Ezra pounces forward. 

“Not bad, Zebby!” he says, punching his brother’s arm. “Pretty impressive, considering that you also took on the broncos tonight! _Although,”_ his eyes narrow, “that Eli Vanto won with the horses again. I think you better not share any more of that moonshine between him and Kal. It’s like they’re stealing away your strength or something.” 

Kallus snorts. He shakes his head, loose bangs swaying in front of him. “Then he’s got some extra strength to spare. That was a _magnificent_ ride tonight, Zeb. You should be very proud.” 

“S’got the potential to get even _better_ ,” Zeb growls, waggling a dark eyebrow. 

Ezra makes a vomiting sound at the innuendo, but Sabine just laughs. She’s _happy_ for Zeb. She knows that he’s been yearning for a relationship like this one for _so_ many years. They’ve all been rooting for him; and Kallus, it seems, is a changed man. One _worth_ rooting for _._ If he continues to be this person that he’s revealed himself to be over these past few months, then Sabine hopes that things never change between them. She’d be glad to have him stay on the ranch. 

As for her _own_ life, however…

Lately, Sabine Wren has been craving adventure. She loves her family. She loves the _Ghost Town_ ranch. She knows that all roads will lead her back home, and at the end of all things, that she’ll come back here to stay. But in the meantime? She _also_ knows that she’s ready for wherever life wants to take her. Lately, and perhaps thanks to Thrawn’s influence, she’s been considering going back to college for art. Perhaps, with a combination of a business major, she could really do something _meaningful_ with her collection of junkyard artwork. With that kind of hope and power in her hands, who _knows_ the kind of impact she could make. These days, Sabine has found herself dreaming out among the stars: the places she’ll go, the people she’ll meet, the things that she’ll do along the way. Truly, the world is just beginning to open it’s hands; and the swaying grasses of the prairieland will always be here waiting for her, when she is ready and willing to return. 

“See you back at home, kid,” Zeb’s voice interrupts her. Sabine glances up, and she feels a heavy hand patting her shoulder. “M’gonna get drinks with Roy, Gregor an’ Alex. Let’s catch up later.” 

Sabine nods at her brother. “Have fun, buddy,” she says. She knows that he will. She knows that he’s out with people who love him, and who will look after him to the point of protection. She also knows that, very likely, Kallus and Zeb will tumble back into his bedroom at the ranch early sometime tomorrow morning--tired-eyed, giggling, _very_ in love. The knowledge of all of this makes her grin. “Try not to get into too much trouble,” she adds. 

Garazeb Orrelios throws an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulder. He kisses into his rugged mutton-chops soundly, rubbing his nose into the golden hair. “What, _us?”_ he laughs in reply. “Out on the town? After a little bull-ridin’? With a batch of my homemade moonshine? _Impossible!”_ Hugging a blushing and laughing Kallus close, he winks at her. “See you later.” 

She waves them off, then turns to her family. Ezra is tossing and catching the final pieces of popcorn in his mouth; Kanan and Hera are egging him on. A feeling of love, contentment and home fill her heart to the point of bursting. _I’ll always have my family,_ she thinks, watching their familiar faces and etching them into her mind. _No matter how far away that I go, or where we all end up: we’ll always come back home to the Ghost._ At Ezra’s gesture, she hurries over to his side. She wants to try her luck at tossing and catching popcorn. 

She also dreaming about how her first, official painting will look as a life-size, family portrait. 

* * *

THE END

... PLUS ONE, FINAL ENCORE

* * *


	18. Kallus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallus enjoys what he didn’t after that first rodeo experience. A hot, tender time is had by all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeehaw! It’s bull-riding time, folx!

* * *

_Kallus_

* * *

All around them, sights and sounds of the rodeo are bursting with celebration. People carry frothy, golden beers in their hands, pouring over the sides of their plastic cups and leaving their fingers sticky from toasting. The nighttime chill of late autumn is here, but the hazy, humid heat of sweating bodies hovers over the bleachers of the stadium like a warm blanket. People are still cheering--some of them wave, and some of them slap Zeb’s back in congratulations as they pass by. 

Garazeb Orrelios, flushed with his victory, pulls Kallus tightly against his side. “You wanna get outta here?” he breathes, voice panting heavy and eager in his boyfriend’s ear. “Wanna take me somewhere private? Have our own little _victory celebration_?”

Kallus shivers, feeling his lips curl into a smile. _Yes._ In fact, he’d like that _very_ much. 

“Our hotel?” he asks Zeb, drinking in the aroma. Tucked under the cowboy’s large, sweaty armpit, he’s immersed in the scent of all things rodeo and _sex._ “But then, we better make sure that we tell Roy and the others that we won’t be joining them.” 

From above and around him, Garazeb chuckles. “Eager, huh? No time for pleasantries at the bar?” 

Again, Kallus shivers. Leaning into the other man’s touch, he raises up onto his tiptoes. Pressing his lips against Zeb’s ear, he breathes sly words into the soft shell. _“Not when I’ve been promised the pleasure of being inside of you,”_ whispers, voice low and seductive. _“How could anyone possibly wait on something so good?”_

The hand gripping around his ribs tightens. 

Zeb groans, turning their bodies roughly around. Kallus grins into him, feeling himself being suddenly and decisively moved towards the exit with much greater speed than before. “Um, yeah. Yer right, actually: _fuck pleasantries_ ,” Zeb replies. He pulls Kallus away from the stands, dropping his hand to grip his slim fingers. “Let’s get outta here. They’ll figure it out.” 

“I was _hoping_ you’d say that.” 

The cowboy flashes him a grin. His massive, sweating fist tugs Kallus forward through the milling crowd. Kallus watches the familiar sights of the winding-down rodeo as they hustle by: children running and chasing after each other; parents standing around while finishing beers; patrons of Honey’s bar making plans to move over to the _Bucking Bronco,_ perhaps hoping to score their own victory in the spirit of things. 

Kallus wishes them well. Yet he knows that his night will be the very best. 

Their boots crunch over the dusty gravel of the parking lot. Outside of the warm stadium, the heat of their breaths fan out into hazy clouds in the night air. Kallus can see the pants coming from Zeb’s burly chest underneath the parted flannel, likely in equal parts from his first ride’s exertion and his excitement for the second. It makes Kallus’ heart ache with love inside of his chest: Garazeb Orrelios seems _forever_ delighted about the prospect of making love. It’s as though every time that they are entwined, it’s just as precious and new to him as that first night. 

“Who's driving?” Zeb pants. “M’guessin’ you’ve already had a few beers?” 

In the evening darkness, Kallus smiles. He can see mischief sparking in the other man’s eyes, and the heat of the suggestions coyness. “You guessed correctly,” he chuckles. “Better you drive the truck right now than me. So, how about this: _you_ get us back to the hotel. And then, once we’re there, _I’ll_ take command.” 

The cowboy groans in pleasure. He opens the door of the truck, stepping in hurriedly. “An’ that’s what _I_ was hopin’ to hear!” he sighs happily.

Kallus cannot help but grin. In most of his previous relationships, he’d often been the receiver. ( _It wasn’t as though this was some kind of hardship; Alexsandr Kallus could take in an exceptional amount of cock, and he was proud of his capacity in such endeavours)._ And yet, in this relationship, more and more Zeb had asked Kallus to be the one taken care of. It had surprised him at first--surely, a man of his power and stature would prefer to be the one asserting pleasure?--but now, it has become one of his greatest pleasures, giving Zeb _exactly_ what he wants. Kallus adores the privilege of making the massive, soft-hearted man unravel beneath his soft touches and even softer words. It’s not quite a dom/sub relationship status, but it does entrust him with a _lot_ of care. 

And Kallus wants to do all of that for his boyfriend. After all, he’s certainly earned it tonight. 

“It’s a deal,” He replies. Kallus climbs into the old, rusted truck on the passenger side, leaving his seatbelt conspicuously unbuckled. Leaning back in his seat so that the buttons strain against his shirt, he bats his long eyelashes at Zeb. “Take me home, cowboy. Let’s ride off into that sunset.” 

And, somehow, they do make it back to the hotel.

It’s a miracle, really—between their hot, sloppy make-out on the passenger side, to that rough, heated thrusting against the truck door--that they even make it that far at all.

Zeb’s hands are on him while Kallus attempts to open the door, his trembling fingers struggling to manage the lock while being so eagerly pawed from behind. As soon as the hotel door swings open, Kallus turns himself around, wrapping his arms around Garazeb’s neck and crushing their searching, wet mouths together.

“You still feel good about our plans?” he asks, lips brushing slickly against Zeb’s. 

The cowboy’s hands slide down from his shoulders and neck. Anchoring around Kallus’ hips, he draws their heaving bodies together. Zeb bows his head, dropping his sweating brow against his. “If you’ll still have me,” he answers. His voice is a low, careful murmur; and yet, even in the suggestion of it, Kallus can hear the question buried underneath.

The need to be told that he is currently wanted and loved, that he will still, after this, _continue_ to be wanted and loved. 

“ _Yes,”_ he replies. Kallus’ finger, tug at the remaining buttons. “Always. _Always,_ my love. So long as you’ll have _me.”_

Garazeb groans. He shudders, dark hairs upon his arms and chest rising to stand as Kallus strips away his shirt. Kallus gently pushes the other man forward, moving him into a sitting position upon the bed. It’s a king-sized mattress and comforter; _most likely, one of very few_ , he thinks to himself. They’ve continued to meet up at the dingy place that Zeb had dubbed ‘their hotel,’ but had upgraded immediately to a larger bed. After all, a twin-size mattress was already laughable for somebody who is Alexsandr Kallus’ size and range. To try and fit _two_ giant men ( _and their athletic activities)_ onto one mattress... 

Slipping out of his own opened shirt, Kallus climbs on top of Zeb’s parted thighs.

They spend the next several minutes seated together, grinding into the weight of their clothed erections, sharing increasingly deep, thrusting kisses and amorous touches. Forever loud and expressive, Kallus moans and grinds down into his partner’s hips. He loves the way that the other man’s hands can nearly wrap around his entire waist while he holds him; he _loves_ the way that their bodies slot so well together, his ass fitting perfectly inside of muscular thighs. 

Finding Zeb fondling his heavy cock through his denim fly, Kallus gasps and nods his head eagerly. “Yeah, alright,” he agrees. “Take those off and lay back, please.” 

“ _Hurry,”_ his partner groans, working quickly at the loops of his belt.

Zeb pulls off the curling phoenix emblem embossed on the large, metal patch over the seam of his fly, then works open the metal teeth of his riding jeans. He hisses as flesh is exposed immediately to the night air, revealing dark skin beneath Kallus’ hands.

“I need ya to see what I’m wearin’.”

Surprised by the expression--particularly, because the cowboy has chosen to ride again without underwear--Kallus assists him. His eyebrows raise as Zeb’s cock springs free, revealing a flash of color buried beneath. _“Garazeb Orrelios,”_ he says, leaning forward to inspect the toy that the man must have inserted inside himself earlier. “Are you telling me that you just went through that whole championship rodeo with this big plug up your _incredible_ ass?” 

The man squirms, nodding. Kallus feels his already-hard erection lurching in appreciation. 

“Zeb, that’s... _fuck!”_ he gasps, dropping to his knees for a better visual. “That’s _very_ hot, my dear,” he finishes, raising a hand to stroke at the man’s shivering legs. Zeb’s hole is filled with the flared top of a bright-purple plug ( _a color, it seems, that is very close to the man’s favored cowboy hat)._ Staring at the object, observing the way that sweat and slick has gathered around the entrance, Kallus can picture how every jostle and thrust would add to the sensation. To be riding on top of a bucking _bull..._ pleasure of it must have been overwhelming. 

“ _Oh,”_ he says, tracing his fingers appreciatively around the toy. “You must have been _very_ confident in tonight’s results, to go out of your way to prepare for me like this.”

Garazeb’s feet flex and tremble on either side of his shoulders. The man’s chest is heaving rapidly once again, and he has thrown a hand over his eyes. _Always so shy,_ Kallus thinks. _We haven’t even started, and he’s already embarrassed._

Crooning, he leans forward and applies a layer of lush, lavish kisses around his partner’s entrance.

It had taken quite a bit of practice for the other man to open up to him in bed. At first, Zeb had started out only asking for the barest of touches, satisfied with whatever smallest gifts Kallus would give him. But then, as the trust began to build between them, his level of need in his expressions began to grow. Finally, at this new development in their relationship, Zeb would manage to voice some of his desires out loud in bed--what felt good, and what truly didn’t--and it has become Kallus’ greatest privilege to provide that for him. 

“Don’t hide your face from me, sweetheart,” he purrs encouragingly. “Anyways, I want to hear you begging my name.” 

The other man whimpers and bucks, his hips thrusting upward into the open air and searching for friction. Kallus indulges him, stroking his hands upwards from the toy and gripping around the base of his lover’s cock. The organ is massive: thick and long as his hand, scattered with pulsing veins, slightly more reddish-pink at the top where his darker skin has been cut. It hangs slightly downward from the heaviness of being full, and Kallus kisses his way appreciatively up the dripping shaft. 

Looking at his gorgeous erection, Kallus almost feels pity for himself for being the one on top. _Almost._

Kallus releases his pleasure through groans and eager exclamations. They fall from his parted lips as he mouths around the flushed, leaking curve of Zeb’s cockhead, leaving his lips slick and glistening. “Dinner of champions,” he proclaims, making his lover laugh before diving downward. Tongue sliding freely, throat swallowing in hearty strokes, he gulps the length of Garazeb down and brings his notes to press against the soft bed of ebony curls. 

“Surely, ya ate somethin’ back at home before the show?” Zeb asks. His pleasured voice holds a note of anxiousness. Even consumed down to the balls, he is considerate about his new boyfriend. 

Kallus pops off. He allows spit and pre-come to slide from his lips, falling downward towards his chest and dominating his lover’s attention. “Dessert, then,” he shrugs, licking at his lips slowly and with deliberate relish. “You feeling good? I’m feeling restless about removing that toy…” 

_“Do it,”_ his lover encourages.

He smiles, bending down once again so that he is eye-level with the other man’s entrance. “Poor, needy Garazeb” he purrs, fingers working slowly around the puckered flesh. “Feeling this bumping against you all night. Waiting to be filled up with something better.” With his thumb and forefinger, he gently hooks his grip around the plug’s handle. “No worries, love. I’ll take care of that now.” 

“ _Please!”_

Kallus shivers. He _loves_ it when he can get his partner to the point of begging. He knows that Garazeb loves it as well. “Push down with your heels, and relax,” he commands. He can feel his aching cock twitch with excitement with Zeb’s obedience, and he savors watching the gorgeous man raising the bow of his hips upwards. “ _That’s_ it, Zeb. I’m going to start working it out, now…” 

He makes the process slow and luxurious. It’s probably a good thing, too, because his partner’s muscles are gripping onto the toy for dear life. Probably, a consequence of all that aggressive riding. 

“... _Alex…”_ Zeb groans, sounding already broken as the flush, spade-shaped head of the toy pops free. It’s dark with lubricant, and carries with it the strong, biting smell of the other man’s digestion. Kallus feels his mouth watering in anticipation, and he takes a moment to admire the object before setting it aside. At the base, where he’d gripped it, the anal plug comes into a neat, t-shaped head. It swells outwards from there, flushing into a knot-like shape and swelling until it’s thickest point in the middle. From that point, it forms into a narrow tear at the head, making for a smooth and consistent entrance. “... _Al,_ c’mon _, please….”_

Soothing his partner, he kisses at the cleared entrance. Zeb is soaking wet from his earlier-applied lubrication, and stretched _very_ wide to be ready for Kallus. _“Yes,”_ he agrees. 

Standing up, he brings himself to the edge of the bed. Kallus lines his cock up with the ring of fluttering muscle, brushing up and down over the entrance. When he feels the tugging of flesh attempting to draw him inside, he steps forward, pressing just the head of his organ inside. _“_ Perfect,” he praises, making the other man stutter. Soft; the secret behind Garazeb Orrelios. One would never know that the gruff, towering ranch-hand would be made utterly vulnerable with the softest of affirming words. With each uttered word of affection, the touch-starved, sensitive man would curl farther and farther into his pleasure. “You really _have_ done a fabulous job preparing for me. I think you could take all of me right away...do you want that, Zeb?” 

The other man moans. He nods his head, once again flushed and too embarrassed for words. 

Kallus reaches forward. Still hitched inside of the man, he strokes his spare fingertips through the other man’s beard, stretching upwards towards his soft, sweating neck. He can feel the pulse fluttering there beneath his touch.

“Look at me, love,” he asks softly, gently. “I want this. But I also really want to hear you say it.” 

Zeb’s eyes open. He looks up at Kallus, utterly owned and awash in love.

 _“Fuck me,”_ he begs. Those earth-toned eyes are spilling over. _“Please._ I want you. _So badly.”_

“I’m _yours_ ,” Kallus confirms. Gripping onto Zeb’s beard, he thrusts himself inside. In one stroke, he buries himself to the hilt. “ _K-karabast!_

Kallus grins as he feels Zeb’s body vibrate with laughter at the use of his favored word. Reaching both hands around until they grip firmly into the flesh of his hips, he hoists his boyfriend upward and withdraws himself to the tip.

“N-not teasin’ ya, just enjoyin’ it!” Zeb protests, ending in a wheeze of mingled groaning and laughter as Kallus drives back down with all of his might. “ _Uuuggghhhh._ Karabast, _indeed.”_

“If you’re still talking,” Kallus admonishes, “then I’m not going hard enough...”

The only expressions that follow are the wet, slapping sounds of their bodies thrusting together. Kallus finds his mouth hanging slightly open, a dribble of spit escaping from them, as he is so full enraptured in the sensation.

Zeb’s body, as always, is _beautiful:_ thick, rippling thighs that could crush boulders; large, grasping hands that could deliver pain as easily as they could pleasure; the white flash of teeth against darker skin; the rippling flex of his full-bodied muscles. It’s only that much _more_ of a treat that he can feel the slick, wet burning of heat from inside of him, sliding his shaft in and out of the well-stretched and ready hole. It really _was_ thoughtful, that he’d prepared for him this well. 

“W-were you thinking of me?” Kallus asks, his voice broken and ragged in their desperate fucking. “During y-your events? With every b-bump and grind? Were you thinking of us, _together_?” 

Zeb pants, his cock lurching upward between them. His eyes are squeezed shut again, but Kallus suspects that it’s now more in ecstasy than in embarrassment. His ample hips are rocking forward and back with each thrust of his body, and the soft layer of fat over his compact muscles ripples with the impact of the pounding. 

_“Mmmmmm,”_ Zeb quietly and happily moans. “Mmnnnn. Oh, _Al._ Oh, _fuck yeah!”_

Sweating, Kallus drives deeper and more urgently into his lover. Breathless, head spinning, he wonders if Zeb might’ve even gone about his daily choring with that toy buried deep between those plush, lovely asscheeks. He bites down on his lip at the idea that Zeb had, perhaps, placed something inside of himself for the duration of his day; that, perhaps, thinking of Kallus with each buck and thrust, he’d imagined what would come to pass between them… His hips stutter in their urgent roll. 

_“MmmNNN! AHh!”_ Zeb yelps, his voice escalating brokenly between them. _“Ah! AHH! ALEX!”_

Kallus is lost in the sound of his lover sobbing his name. He’s lost in the feeling of being drawn into and buried within him, consumed by the wet-slick heat of his body. He’s lost in the knowing that he’s somehow earned the heart of this outstanding partner, and that his love, somehow, is wholly returned. Gripping onto Zeb’s ass with all of his might, he pounds the other man into the mattress. 

“I’m here!” he gasps, sounding just as pleasured and broken. “I’m here! Zeb! I’ve got you! I--” 

The repetitive striking of cockhead against Zeb’s sensitive prostate has made the other man’s organ burst open and leak with spurts of clear fluid. Kalus releases one hand and thumbs at the pre-come urgently, working it up and over the shaft as he pumps at it with a burning speed.

“In-- _inside me--”_ his lover pleads, and Kallus hears himself agreeing.

Increasing the speed of his hand to match the thrust of their hips, he sets up the rhythm for their impending climax. Garazeb, he’s learned, appreciates for his touches to be predictable: a consistent, steady buildup of pacing until he comes flooding over the edges. Kallus has always been more of somebody who gets turned on by surprising, unexpected touches; but he is more than happy to bring Zeb his pleasure, and to learn more about his lover’s body.

“N-nearly there,” Zeb is huffing, his words coming out in a while. “F-fuck, _almost-_ \- _GgUUH!!”_

Kallus groans and gasps aloud, too, as Zeb’s body clenches hot and firm around him in his climax. He feels the dripping, heated rinse of his lover’s spend shooting out from between the fingers of his hand, pulsing against his thoroughly-messed mutton-chops, and painting a spatter on his heaving chest.

Delirious with pleasure, Kallus releases Zeb’s cock and focuses all of his lasting thoughts upon his spasmic thrusts, taking only the smallest of movements until he is also spilling inside of him. 

_“Fuck indeed,_ ” Kallus laughs, breathy and parroting Zeb’s earlier tone. “Oh, _Zeb,_ that was fantastic. I love you. I love you _so much.”_

He collapses on top of the other man, feeling strong hands gather him into his chest.

Zeb grunts at his additional weight, maneuvering Kallus so that their bodies can rest side-by-side together, their hands entangled and their fingers entwined. Zeb throws one trembling, come-spattered thigh over Kallus’ hip, drawing him closer by pressing a heel into his buttocks. Ever wanting to get closer, Kallus oblivious, scooting and shifting his hips and chest until their bodies are fully aligned. 

“I love you too,” Zeb whispers into his ear. 

This, more than anything, makes Kallus’ heart burst into song. He feels his already pounding heart race to thundering inside of his chest, and the hot prickle of tears underneath his eyelashes. _“Yeah?”_ he asks, softly. For all of the many times that he’d declared his undying love to his new partner, Zeb has yet to say the words back. And now, offered against the softness of his ear, Kallus feels as though he could die just now and finally have everything that he’s ever wanted. 

“Yeah,” Zeb agrees. He threads his hands through Alexsandr’s sweating and golden hair, combing the tangles and letting his fingertips lay tenderly on either side of his face. “And I think that’s okay.” 

Kallus smiles, and he feels such a wave of warmth and protective affection wash over him that he might even faint. Garazeb Orrelios: the strongest man this side of West River, the kindest heart on the _Ghost Town_ ranch, and the softest person he’s ever met, is willing to share this part of himself with him. In spite of everything--all that they’d ever been, all that Kallus had put their family through--he still wants to choose him. And, even more: it’s a willing decision. 

“I’ll never understand,” Kallus whispers, feeling tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes. “But I am grateful. I _love_ you, Zeb. And I’m so very thankful that you’re giving me the chance.” 

Zeb’s thumbs brush away the falling, warm tears.

“I always wanted to give ya that chance,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb tenderly over Kallus’ wet cheeks. “From the moment that ya stepped on the ranch. From the moment that ya wore that stupid, white cowboy hat, and ya threatened me with more than most have the ‘nads.”

Zeb chuckles and bows his head once again, pressing their sweating foreheads together. 

Leaning close to him, Kallus inhales and truly _breathes._ He breathes in the beauty and the freedom of knowing someone intimately, and being known; of being held by someone who he wants, and who wants him back. It’s a treasure; it’s priceless. The wealth of it is so much more than any of the riches and luxuries that he’s known and left.   
  


“I love you, Garazeb, he whispers again.” 

In giving up his life as an agent, and joining this honorable, good man on the _Ghost Town_ ranch, he’s finally found all that he ever wanted. He’s finally beginning to even find hiding, and the man that he’s always hoped to be. In the Spectres, he’s found a new family and values; in Fulcrum Trio, he’s found a new purpose. Wrapping his arms around the other man tightly, kissing him soundly and being kissed back, Alexsandr Kallus realizes that he’s even found the home that he’d thought that he’d lost forever. He’s found it in this man, who had seen him for all that he’d wanted to be. Who he really is. 

And, in this total change of his life—in this leaving behind all that he knows, and seeking the answers for something new and hopeful with the _Ghost Town_ Rebels—if there is any kind of loss, it’s far outstripped by the gain. 

“Thank you, Zeb,” he murmurs into his partner’s warm skin. “For that change. For tonight. For _everything._ ” 

Underneath his lips, he can feel the soft beating of a steady, familiar heartbeat. It soothes him, and makes him feel ready to drift off to sleep. He knows that he will be well protected; he knows that he will be well. And when he wakes up in the morning, he knows that his life has all the potential to get better. And keep getting better, every day, from now on.   
  


“Yer welcome, my darlin’,” Zeb rumbles in reply. “Now, you get some sleep. I wanna see that yer ready to go again, first thing in the mornin.’”

Kallus grins. He kisses the other man, rubbing their noses together.

”To the victor go the spoils,” he whispers. With one last kiss, he buries his head in the other man’s chest, feeling arms wrap around him and hold him in sleep. As he falls into the softness of dark waiting for him, glimmer of moonshine slips through the parted curtains. 

He smiles in his sleep. 

* * *

  
  
THE END   
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this “ride” with me. Many thanks to all do you for your support, comments and kudos. You’ve made this AU adventure a whole lot of fun. 
> 
> 💖 I’m always open for fic commissions, beta reading, and brainstorming. Hit me up @chocomudkip if you ever want to scream about it the queerness of Star Wars.


	19. Art by Sempaiko: Into the Sunset

It's been such a pleasure, Mudkip, letting me sketch and draw for these boys and your fic. It was such a great 'ride' and I adore the way you brought it to life. Cheers my friend! 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment and/or kudos if you have the time. <3


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